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THE DIVINE GIFT 



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THE DIVINE GIFT 

A PLAY IN THREE ACTS 

BY 

HENRY ARTHUR JONES 



NEW YORK 
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 

1913 






Copyright, 1913 
By George H. Doran Company 



PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY 
BALLA.NTYNE AND COMPANY LTD. LONDON 



©CI.D 3354? 



*D 



DEDICATION 



DEDICATION 



To PROFESSOR GILBERT MURRAY, LL.D., 

Regius Professor of Greek at Oxford. 

Dear Professor Murray, — In your interesting 
summary of the modern English drama, as reported 
in an American paper last spring, you incidentally 
buried me. I had not the faintest idea that I was 
dead, and am still under the impression that I am 
alive. But this may be merely a wilful, selfish 
prejudice of mine. 

Vast numbers of our population, wearing a human 
shape, move about amongst us, eating, chattering, 
marketing, dressing and undressing themselves, 
crowding our streets and churches and trains, in the 
fixed idea that they are alive ; whereas they are 
virtually as defunct as if their bones were in the 
earth and their souls with the saints. You will have 
noticed that these colloidal bodies form a large pro- 
portion of our voters at elections, and of our audiences 
at the theatres ; while many of our newspapers and 

7 



8 THE DIVINE GIFT 

popular magazines are written almost exclusively for 
them. 

And for all I know I may be one of them. In that 
case it was a kindly and thoughtful action on your 
part to bury me. For this persistent mass of obstruc- 
tive matter, walking about in the guise of living men 
and women, is a sad and main hindrance to the real 
business of the world. And as our drama is already 
clogged and choked with it, you were moved by a 
wise impulse in trying to get some of it out of the 
way. 

Being thus mercifully disposed of, I fear it shows a 
great want of consideration on my part to revisit you, 
and ask you to accept the dedication of the following 
play, written, I grieve to tell you, after my com- 
pulsory interment, You cannot but think it a 
monstrous impertinence for me to pretend to be still 
alive. It may be necessary for you, or for some stern 
guardian of the very latest school of modern drama, 
to treat me as Punch treats the obtuse policeman who 
also shows symptoms of recalcitrant vitality — to 
chastise my obstinacy with redoubled thwacks, and to 
shout over me more exultant pseans. At least I here 
offer you a chance to give me a deeper and more deter- 
mined and more forcible burial — after you have 
carefully ascertained this time that I am really 
dead. 

However, this preference or whim of mine for 
keeping alive is, after all, a mere personal concern. If 
I can be persuaded that the interests of the 
drama are thereby to be served I am ready to yield 



THE DIVINE GIFT 9 

the point, and will uncomplainingly attend my own 
funeral in the usual quiescent horizontal manner. In 
any case it is not a matter of great importance. 

What, however, is of great importance is the fact 
that an English scholar and man of letters of your 
standing is to be found taking a keen interest in the 
modern acted drama ; that you are alive to its vast 
influence for good or evil in our national life ; that you 
are searching out its laws ; that you are actively en- 
gaged in advancing its welfare, and bringing it again 
into communion with English literature ; that being a 
man of letters you are also a man of the theatre. That 
is a fact upon which the English modern drama is to 
be congratulated. And if I have timidly hinted a 
doubt as to the soundness of your judgment in one 
individual case, this need scarcely detract from the 
value of your advocacy as a whole. 

For English men of letters do as a rule make a 
woeful mess of it when they turn their attention to the 
modern drama. There was Mr. Birrell, for instance, 
who set out to prove that Browning was essentially a 
popular playwright who only just missed being popular, 
because the dense stupidity of the public would not 
allow him to be popular in his own remote unpopular 
way. 

However, Mr. Birrell has ceased to confuse the public 
mind upon the subject of dramatic literature, and has 
since been elegantly toying with National Education 
and Home Rule. 

Now our so-called modern literary plays may for the 
most part be divided into three classes — those that are 



10 THE DIVINE GIFT 

not plays ; those that are not literature ; and those 
that are neither plays nor literature. 

Clearly, a literary play should first of all be a play. 
Its story, motives, and characters should be so plain 
and direct as to hold the interest of an average audience 
from beginning to end. It should stand the noisy test 
of representation on the boards. 

Clearly, a literary play should also be literature. If 
it is a play of modern life its dialogue should be easy, 
natural, colloquial, unstilted, unaffected, characteristic 
of each person speaking in each situation. It should 
carefully avoid being banal, commonplace, slangy, or 
smart and epigrammatic on the level of a cheap comic 
illustrated paper. It should stand the quiet test of 
reading in the study. 

This does not imply that the literary dramatist is 
limited in his choice of characters to those persons who 
talk like a book. It does imply that he should choose 
only those persons who occasionally do and say things 
that are worthy of remembrance, and that he should 
choose them in those few moments and situations when 
they are saying and doing such things. And to the 
extent that he does this, will his play become more and 
more unlike a picture of ordinary average actualities, 
more unlike what is called " a slice of life." It will 
become more artificial in that sense in which all works 
of art are artificial. The higher the art and the higher 
the subject, the more surely the artist is forced to 
employ transparent artifice. Art is art because it is 
not nature. 

I notice you are growing impatient. You will 



THE DIVINE GIFT 11 

surely rebuke me for daring to offer such a platitude 
to the translator of Euripides and Aristophanes. 
But I am not now addressing you as the delightful 
and scholarly translator, who commands my unques- 
tioning admiration. I am addressing you as the 
critic of modern English drama. And may I be 
pardoned for saying that, in your reported American 
utterances, I thought I detected some divergency of 
general outlook between your two characters? I 
thought I perceived what Urquhart, equal in renown 
with yourself as a translator of classics, would have 
called "an enormous dissolution of continuity." 

But this failure of mine to reconcile your points of 
view may be due to that perversity and confusion 
which cloud the mind and vision of moribund 
persons^andjwhich probably deepen and intensify when 
once they are safely and determinately dead. And 
perhaps it is this perversity and confusion of mind 
which, clinging to me even in the shades, lead me to 
ask a few querulous inopportune questions. 

Has not our modern drama been getting away from 
the centre of late ? Is it not showing a tendency to 
leave the main road and run up little by-lanes? 
When it is not freakish, argumentative, paradoxical, 
does it not become merely photographic and phono- 
graphic ? In its ambition to be a faithful reporter of 
life, a diligent student of commonplace persons in 
commonplace moods and situations, a cataloguer of 
small actualities, has it not largely declined to be 
the haunting imaginative interpreter of life ? And in 
its desire to transcribe in an honest businesslike way 



12 THE DIVINE GIFT 

the actual talk of actual everyday persons, has it not 
largely denied itself the chance of saying anything that 
is worth listening to and worth recording ? How will 
these plays look in a dozen years' time? Will their 
raw modernity mellow with time, and blend with the 
permanent hues and tones of humanity? How do 
they read now ? 

Many plays of the last generation, which you were 
reported to call old-fashioned, are in print, and their 
sale, if not large, is steady and regular. Some of 
them, dating almost twenty years, have been revived 
at West End theatres within the last year or two, 
have met with great success, and, strangely enough, 
have been caressed by the journals as not showing any 
essential signs of age, 

It is true that they do not set out to tackle the 
latest newspaper and political problems in the spirit 
and by the methods of the social reformer. Neither 
does any play that has lived. If I may whisper 
a caution to young and aspiring playwrights, 
I would say, •' Never choose for your theme a burning 
question of the hour, unless you wish merely for a 
success that will burn out in an hour. If you 
wish your plays to live, choose permanent themes 
and universal types of character." 

A warm admirer and encourager of the youthful 
Shakespeare once said to him, " Lucky Dramatist, to 
live in these stirring times, when religious England has 
just been shaken to her depths, and when all this 
ferment of Puritanism is rising in her veins 1 Up, 
man ! Give us a great religious play dealing with 



THE DIVINE GIFT 13 

these burning actualities." Shakespeare was deaf 
that morning. 

How stale is the whiff of past controversies and 
burning problems ! How already past and forgotten 
by the artist are the storms and fevers of his own 
time ! How sure is his path to oblivion who treats 
some question of the passing hour in some mode of the 
passing hour ! 

We have lately been reading Les Dieux ont soif. 
Evariste Gamelin, the young revolutionary painter, 
was, like yourself, in the heat of a classic Renascence, 
and will therefore engage your sympathy. Gamelin 
was in the movement. He proposed to make it hum 
by means of a pack of revolutionary cards whereon 
symbolic figures of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity 
should replace the outworn figments of Kings, Queens, 
and Knaves. The citizen Blaise with a shrewder know- 
ledge of what is perennially attractive in art advised 
Gamelin to paint pretty pink ladies with dainty hands 
and feet. " L'ardeur des citoyens a se reg^nerer tiedit 
avec le temps, et les hommes aimeront toujours les 
femmes." 

Gamelin had a furious hatred for Fragonard. 
Fragonard was not in the movement. Fragonard 
was not vexing himself and the world about Liberty, 
Equality, and Fraternity. Fragonard had committed 
the mortal sin of being old-fashioned. Gamelin could 
find in his work neither nature nor truth. In a 
hundred years it would have rotted miserably in 
garrets. Meanwhile Gamelin wished that some lover 
of art would hang and flay Fragonard as a warning 



14 THE DIVINE GIFT 

to bad painters. So said Gamelin, who had not your 
kind gentle way of casually burying defunct artists. 
And lucky it is for me that I have come under so mild 
and pleasant a jurisdiction as yours. 

But Fragonard, who had never been stridently 
alive, was on that account all the less inclined to go 
to an early grave. 

A hundred years after Gamelin's prophecy, Frago- 
nard's paintings, instead of having rotted in garrets, 
were drawing us all to Agnew's. Agnew's had paid 
eighty thousand pounds for three of them ; certainly 
not because they had much nature or truth, but 
because they possessed the more enticing qualities of 
beauty, charm, and exquisite workmanship. And 
Fragonard remains, though his pictures give sadly 
little evidence of any burning zeal for social reform. 
He remains as a guide to artists in times of social 
ferment and revolution. 

Gamelin, too, remains, but not even as a warning 
to bad painters. He remains only as a warning to 
promoters of a Renascence in art. 

Now I have an intense sympathy with Renascence 
promoters, because I am one myself. You may 
remember that I had a dramatic Renascence of my 
own some twenty years ago. And now it seems there 
has been another dramatic Renascence — this time a 
veritable, authentic, unmistakable Renascence of the 
English drama. As you are intimately associated 
with this later Renascence, and as you are vouching 
for its leading spirits, I may perhaps be allowed for the 
purpose of this paper to call it your Renascence. 



THE DIVINE GIFT 15 

I think I may put in some claim to be the original 
promoter of a dramatic Renascence in this country. 
Indeed, I might furnish some plausible, if not quite 
convincing, evidence to show that I am the real, if not 
the putative, father of your Renascence. But I for- 
bear. For it would ill become Renascence promoters of 
our standing to dispute over trifles, as did the Dean and 
Chapter of Hereford over the Athanasian Creed, and 
Michael and Satan over the soul of George the Third. 

There is no vested interest in Renascences. Any- 
body can start one at any time, and sing Ca ira. 
Therefore I do not propose to hang out a sign, 
" Original promoter of the English Dramatic Renas- 
cence; no connection with any other firm." My 
object in offering to share the paternity of your 
Renascence, is to show you that I take a friendly 
benevolent interest in it. In any case, another 
dramatic Renascence was to be expected ; judging 
from the fact that, alike in art and medicine and 
philosophy, whatever is claimed to be eternally 
right and true in one generation, is proved in 
the next to be perniciously wrong and fallacious. 
Thus in 1896 I wrote : " Dramatic reformers always 
pretend to return to nature and truth, and are gener- 
ally found out in the next generation to be stale 
theatrical impostors." 

To this complexion must we all come — in the next 
generation — by the inevitable operation of the law of 
change. Golden lads and girls all must, like chimney- 
sweepers, submit to a provisional interment. But a 
time comes when friendly hands exhume the remains, 



16 THE DIVINE GIFT 

and hold an inquest on such of them as still show 
symptoms of recalcitrant vitality. And then it is 
discovered that while the chimney-sweepers have come 
to dust and putrefaction, the golden lads and girls 
have only put on a borrowed # likeness of shrunk death, 
and they awake as from a pleasant sleep, and come 
trippingly forth, never again to be hurt by the heat of 
the sun, or to fear slander and rash censure. The 
lion Time, as in Victor Hugo's exquisite poem, has 
only pretended to devour them, and has all the while 
been lovingly keeping them in his cave, waiting a 
signal to lead them forth, flushed with resurgent 
vigour and youth. 

If I may jot down a rough rule or two whereby we 
may estimate the permanent value of a piece of art or 
literature, I would state them thus : " The form need 
not be perfect, if the substance is eternal. The sub- 
stance need not be eternal, if the form is perfect. But 
form or substance, or both, must be prepared to stand 
very hard wear. Originality, either of form or sub- 
stance, is to be shrewdly suspected and questioned. 
Some element of beauty must enter into the com- 
position." 

I hope, for the sake of your reputation as sponsor, 
and for the sake of my reputation as provisional backer 
of your Renascence, that you have carefully assured 
yourself that some such tests as these may be safely 
applied to the work of our proteges. Otherwise we 
shall be left in the lurch, and I shall be inclined to 
hedge, and cry off my share in the paternity. 

I have lately heard a former admirer and defender 



THE DIVINE GIFT 17 

of Ibsen declare that he had just re-read thirteen of 
his plays, and found them faded and old-fashioned. 
So, as Pliable said when he found that a determina- 
tion to reach the Celestial City merely landed him in 
a sticky bog, "Where are we now?" If Ibsen is 
already to be classed with the Bible and myself as 
" old-fashioned," whose turn is to come next ? 

Zola, too, was another man who had a Renascence 
of his own. Zola, too, groped for nature and truth ; 
sometimes, indeed, at the bottom of a cesspool. And 
now it seems likely that Zola will be far more honoured 
as the defender of Dreyfus, than as the leader of a 
movement which has landed his followers and imitators 
in a very sticky bog. 

And so the Renascences come and go. For when 
once we start having Renascences there's no stopping 
them. Therefore, I take it, the chief thing for us 
Renascence promoters to do, is to find out when 
somebody is coming along with the next one. 

If I have not already been too impertinent, would 
you kindly tell me how long you expect your Renas- 
cence to last ? Are you quite sure of your men ? 
What about their staying 'power ? Will they hold 
out for twenty years ? Are they golden lads, or mere 
useful chimney-sweepers ? I have a lively reason for 
pressing these questions' upon you. The fact is 
I'm not quite sure whether I won't have another 
dramatic Renascence of my own. I am seriously 
thinking about it. 

Now as a friendly Renascence promoter, I am 
anxious Dot to encroach on your Renascence — while 

B 



18 THE DIVINE GIFT 

it has the vogue. Indeed, while it has the vogue, I 
shall be one of its warmest and blindest supporters. 
Nobody will be more ready than myself to discover a 
profound philosophy of life in what appears to be 
superficial paradox ; or to acclaim as daring genius 
what has an aspect of mere perversity. If any 
character is especially tiresome or disagreeable or 
commonplace, I shall exclaim, " How true to life ! — 
What an insight into human nature ! " For who can 
deny that average human nature is at times very 
tiresome and disagreeable and commonplace ? And 
how tenaciously these eternal attributes of our 
common humanity have been seized, how vividly they 
have been rendered in some of our recent plays ! 
One of the leading aims of your Renascence, so far as 
I have been able to understand it, is to avoid any 
action and story that might arouse emotion ; and for 
such action and emotion to substitute any ideas that 
are likely to promote discussion. And I take it the 
more ideas that are " presented," and the more 
perplexing their mode of presentation, the more dis- 
cussion is likely to be provoked. Here, again, while 
ideas and discussion are the vogue in the theatre, 
your Renascence shall have my loudest approval. 
Later in this volume I have shown my passion for 
ideas. Meantime, between ourselves, I have an uneasy 
feeling that ideas in the theatre are driving the great 
crowd of playgoers to musical comedy, and romping 
farce, and spectacle. I think, however, that at present 
we have a goodly number of adherents amongst the 
omniscient half -educated classes. Our difficulty will 






THE DIVINE GIFT 19 

be to prevent these good people from examining our 
ideas. This, I think, may be overcome by continuing 
to shower ideas upon them in such profusion and 
confusion as to keep them in their present attitude 
of bewildered admiration. 

Another difficulty will be to prevent them from 
finding out that ideas are ceasing to amuse them. 
On leaving the theatre after reverently witnessing a 
piece that had been commended to me for its masterly 
avoidance of action, and its masterly exposition of 
ideas, I was somewhat shocked to hear the following 
conversation between two enthusiasts. 

" Wasn't it splendid ? Didn't you enjoy it ? " 
" Oh yes, I enjoyed it immensely ; but don't you 
think it was rather dull ? " 

This sounded to me rather ominous. The play was 
a masterpiece. I knew that. It had ideas — bushels 
of them. And in order to appreciate it, as it deserved, 
I had carefully forgotten all laws of dramatic con- 
struction, and had carefully refrained from applying 
any workable standards of morality. I mention this 
to show you to what lengths I am willing to go in 
support of your Renascence — while it has the vogue. 
But cheerfully as I am prepared to throw overboard 
all the standards of morality and all the laws of 
dramatic technique — while it is the vogue to do so — 
I cannot quite so readily accept the prospect of being 
bored. I know that this is the final and decisive 
test of genuine admiration of any work of art — how 
much unmistakable boredom are we prepared to 
endure in order to be able to say that we enjoy it ? 



20 THE DIVINE GIFT 

Rather than you should think me half-hearted, I 
will not shrink even from this severe test. If I find 
dullness creeping over me I will try to argue myself 
out of it. At any rate, I will pretend not to 
yawn. 

All these services I am ready to render to your 
Renascence — while it has the vogue. More than 
these amiable pretences I do not think any of us 
Renascence promoters are entitled to ask from our 
supporters. 

Meantime, I am wondering whether another dra- 
matic Renascence isn't due. And as I am hand- 
somely and unselfishly supporting your Renascence 
while it has the vogue, I hope I may rely upon you 
to lend me a hand, if circumstances oblige me to float 
another Renascence on my own account. It is plain 
that we cannot have two Renascences at the same 
time. The public wouldn't stand it. There isn't vogue 
enough to go round. 

Yogue is a most useful and necessary counterpane 
to cover the defects and eccentricities of a Renascence. 
It is the size and quantity of the vogue, rather than 
the quality of the plays, that make for a dramatic 
Renascence. 

And while you have all the counterpane, what is 
there to cover my imperfections ? Excuse my getting 
a little impatient — there's a keenish wind — I feel a 
little chilly out here in the cold. Shall you be very 
long with that counterpane ? 

I see that you have lost all patience with me. You 
are saying, " These are mere post-mortem dallyings 



THE DIVINE GIFT 21 

and pretexts to loiter in the sunshine and upper air. 
Be off back ! " 

And no wonder after seeing me quietly inhumed, you 
feel some irritation to find that I have burst my cere- 
ments, and am standing at your door asking you to 
accept the dedication of the following play. 

I do this in the sincerest good faith, knowing how 
great a gain it is for the modern English drama to 
have the countenance and sympathy of English men 
of letters, how impossible it is there should be any 
worthy or enduring English drama without the pass- 
port of their authority and judgment. 

It is true that their judgment will be liable to 
error, until they have taken more pains to study and 
understand the modern stage. 

I have already mentioned the sad case of Mr. 
Birrell. 

Then there was the case of Matthew Arnold. Thirty 
years ago, in pursuit of my ceaseless aim to get 
English men of letters to understand the English 
theatre, I drew him to take an interest in the modern 
acted drama. He came amongst us with a grace and 
amiability equal to your own. But he had not seen 
a modern play for a quarter of a century. What was 
the result ? 

It goes very much against my grain to deprecate 
the judgment of any critic who, on any ground what- 
ever, praises any play of mine. Believe me, I would 
far rather own myself mistaken. But I am obliged 
to confess that Matthew Arnold, while perhaps he was 
right in recognising that a new movement had started 



22 THE DIVINE GIFT 

in the drama, did very much overpraise some of my 
crude early work. His advent, however, in the 
theatre, like your own advent, was of signal benefit to 
the struggling English drama; inasmuch as it called 
attention to the fact that work was being done on the 
modern stage which was worth the attention and 
examination of a scholar and man of letters. And 
this told with the general public. I think I may 
claim that under shelter of the counterpane Matthew 
Arnold lent me, I did some useful work for the modern 
drama. Let us therefore forgive any kindly mistake 
he may have made in forming too favourable an 
estimate of my early plays, and pass on to your own 
case. 

Now however readily and generously I may condone 
the error of a man who has overpraised me, I can 
scarcely be expected to show quite the same easy 
magnanimity to a man whom I suspect of having 
committed the opposite error. But here again I have 
no wish to be dogmatic. 

If I may carry you with me for a moment, let us 
provisionally assume that there is a sporting chance 
you may have been mistaken. At least let us venture 
upon the very general statement that there is some 
ground for thinking that hitherto English scholars 
and men of letters have approached and examined 
the modern English drama only to pronounce wrong 
judgments upon it. What does that matter ? 

Consider the enormous mutability and worthless- 
ness of human opinion. Upon any imaginable hypo- 
thesis, the vast majority of the countless billions of 



THE DIVINE GIFT 23 

men that have peopled this earth, must have spent 
their leisure in forming entirely wrong opinions about 
their temporary and eternal welfare. Yet this appal- 
ling certainty has never deterred one of them from 
voting, or from burning his neighbour, or from smash- 
ing windows, or from hissing a play. It is difficult to 
see how mankind are to be restrained from this 
mischievous habit of forming wrong opinions. Nor 
perhaps would a world, in which everybody's brain 
was an automatic register of correct thought, be a 
pleasant world to live in. It would certainly oner 
very scanty material to the dramatist. On this score 
let us be well content that a pervasive muddleheaded- 
ness is the permanent and distinguishing trait of 
humanity. Let us sometimes indulge ourselves in the 
freedom of being comfortably and carelessly wrong, 
and let us allow this same freedom to English men of 
letters in their judgments of the English drama. 

For the moment it is of far greater importance 
that English men of letters should interest themselves 
in our modern drama than that they should form right 
opinions about it. Therefore I hope the possibility 
that you have been mistaken in one of your estimates 
will not discourage you from making another assay. 

But you will say, What is the use of English men of 
letters coming to criticise the modern drama when it 
appears they always form wrong judgments about it ? 
Why not leave the verdict to the public ? Ultimately 
the verdict must be left to the public. Theie can be 
no question about that. 

Now so far as a play is a bit of stagecraft, a theatri- 



24 THE DIVINE GIFT 

cal entertainment devised to amuse the public, the 
public is a righteous and summary judge. The public 
themselves will always take care of that side of it. 

But you will agree with me that a play to be worth 
consideration should have other and higher qualities 
than that of instantly catching and amusing t the 
public for an hour. 

Modern English plays are scarcely ever judged by 
playgoers except on the count of their instant appeal 
to the mere amusement instinct. That is one reason 
we have no national drama. The literary quality of a 
play is barely in evidence amongst us and scarcely 
counts. Our audiences are rarely guided to take note 
of dignified and appropriate diction. Therefore they 
hold it of no value, and are satisfied with the careless 
slang of the drawing-room and the street. 

That is where men of letters come in. For I 
suppose I shall not be told that the drama of a nation 
has no concern to preserve the purity and vigour of 
the language. 

Now the errors of English men of letters in the 
theatre are chiefly in matters merely theatrical, where 
they are unversed ; and where as we have already seen 
the public themselves are already qualified judges. 
In matters of literature, English men of letters are 
likely to be right, and their influence and authority 
are most valuable ; because their verdicts filter through 
to the average careless playgoer, gradually raising 
his standard of appreciation, \ and gradually persuading 
him to recognise what is of enduring excellence. 

I submit this play to you, then, as a man of letters. 



THE DIVINE GIFT 25 

In thus handing the play over to you, I am un- 
luckily compelled to leave you the dangerous latitude 
of an entire freedom of judgment upon it. And I 
fear this may not be wholly favourable to the play. 

I cannot hope that it will engage your sympathies 
so far as it touches upon present social questions and 
tendencies. In my capacity as private citizen I have 
an innate radicalism which burns to reform our social 
system, and instantly to remodel the world after my 
own notions. I hope I have not allowed this private 
radicalism to become too obtrusive in the play. If 
I may give expression to my fatherly interest in 
your Renascence, I fancy I have discovered in some 
of its leaders a slight tendency to make the 
drama a kind of maid-of-all-work to political and 
social movements, and do all sorts of useful odd jobs 
to tidy up the world. This is well. The world needs 
to be tidied up. Things are not as they should be — 
far from it. Even when we have reformed the British 
drama, and given women a vote, some abuses will 
remain. 

Now as a private citizen nobody could be more 
anxious than I am to sweep away all social abuses and 
everybody's wrongs. But as dramatists we must dis- 
tinguish. We must sternly repress our noble rage to 
administer the universe. 

The Governor of Tilbury Fort in the "Critic" 
could not in his public duty yield to the promptings 
of his father's heart. 

The father softens — but the Governor 
Is fixed. 



26 THE DIVINE GIFT 

If, therefore, you find that in the following pages 
social questions are shirked in an attempt to sustain 
the interest of the play, you will understand that 
although I am a relentless social reformer, and have a 
grandfatherly fondness for my own fads, yet as 
Governor of Tilbury Fort I must preserve a severe anti- 
thesis between my private feelings and my public duty. 

My innate radicalism has, I daresay, peeped out. 
But in the present instance, if I may use Parson 
Lingen's metaphor, this good nourishing milk of 
radicalism has thrown up a rich Tory cream. You will 
have noticed that the good milk of radicalism which 
flows from the bosoms of many of our compatriots, 
is also at the present moment, under stress of being 
whipped, throwing up a rich Tory cream. They have 
their Renascences in politics too, which come and go. 

If, therefore, I have allowed an intrusion of present- 
day questions into the following play, it is rather 
to cement the character of the speaker than to gain 
the renown of a successful pamphleteer. These 
questions happened to stray naturally into the scheme 
of the play, and I did not turn them out. 

Why should I? We have a large and increasing 
number of painfully earnest playgoers who hunger 
and thirst for social and political discussion and 
enlightenment in the theatre, And so far as my sense 
of public duty as Governor of Tilbury Fort will allow 
me, I desire to humour them. On second thoughts, I 
will vstretch a point to please them. 

The father softens — and the Governor 
Will think it ovw\ 



THE DIVINE GIFT 27 

The great anti-burgling play, which Mr. Puff 
designed with the idea of showing housebreaking 
in a ridiculous light, still remains unwritten. But 
perhaps the theme is scarcely austere enough for our 
pioneer playgoers. If they will only wait till I have 
splashed awhile amongst human passions and follies, I 
promise to set to work in a spirit as painfully earnest 
as their own, on a most tempting treatise in dialogue 
which I shall entitle " Dumping Analysed." I shan't 
call it a play. I shall call it a disposium. 

It will contain a fat body of contradictory political 
and economical doctrine, my object being to prove 
that all the current opinions on the subject are mani- 
festly idiotic. I am convinced that, long before the 
fall of the curtain, playgoers of all opinions will own 
that I have given them a great deal more than they 
can swallow. 

Meantime, perhaps, our more advanced playgoers 
will be satisfied with the meagre and tentative instal- 
ment of sociology which is offered them in the present 
play ; and which, I am careful to explain, is meant to 
be accepted only by those who happen to agree with it. 

But the truth is, I care as little for doctrinal dis- 
putes as Gallio or Fragonard. And I feel that if I 
am to coax you to adopt this play, I must try another 
tack. 

The construction of a play is the last virtue that 
should be apparent to the public, and the last virtue 
for which the author should claim recognition. It is, 
however, the first virtue which the author should set 
himself to acquire. Until the carpenter has learned 



28 THE DIVINE GIFT 

the use of his tools he cannot make a cabinet. The 
better and more seasoned the wood he has to work 
upon, the more is the pity he should spoil good 
material. And if he has only common or faulty 
material to work upon, fine workmanship is all the 
more needful to cover its defects. Let him therefore 
busy himself in his workshop for seven years, and for 
yet twice seven years. 

The main design of the present play gave me 
scarcely an hour's labour. The scenes fell easily into 
the simplest arrangement. But the construction 
within each individual scene gave me infinite trouble 
and perplexity — more, indeed, than any play I have 
written. I hope this will not be obvious, and that it 
will escape the notice of any one who does not happen 
to read this preface. 

It is of no interest except to those who are con- 
cerned with the intricacies and devices of dramatic 
construction, and I merely mention it as a memo- 
randum for their curiosity to note. 

The highest aim of dramatic construction is to 
unify a story so as to present the greatest quantity 
and variety of action and character in the allotted 
time. The Shakespearean convention is the only one 
that by its wide and rapid changes of scene, its easy 
leaps across continents and years, marshals an enor- 
mous pageantry of action and character so that it can 
pass the spectator in an easy natural way. 

Compare the depopulated stage, the attenuated 
action of Sophocles, Moliere, and Racine with the 
crowded and varied bustle of Shakespeare ; the busy 



THE DIVINE GIFT 29 

hum that comes from his universal workshop ; the 
drums and tramplings of his hundred legions ; the 
long resounding march of assembled humanity as it 
troops across his boards. 

Even the modern arrangers and adaptors of Shake- 
speare do not wholly rob him of this richness and 
fullness. They never quite succeed in pinning him 
down within our narrower and wholly different con- 
vention, though they sometimes prove him to be a 
tiresome, inconsequent playwright. 

For a long generation our realistic drama of modern 
life has practised an ever-increasing and more severe 
economy of scene, and action, and dialogue. It tends 
to deny itself all trappings and effects but those of 
ordinary everyday life. 

It has become an eavesdropping photographic re- 
porter, taking snapshots and shorthand notes. We 
may, without intending to depreciate it, call our 
present convention the eavesdropping convention — 
the convention which charges playgoers half-a-crown 
or half-a-guinea for pretending to remove the fourth 
wall, and pretending to give them an opportunity of 
spying upon actual life, and seeing everything just as 
it happens. 

Under the eavesdropping convention we have greatly 
gained in naturalness and sincerity of dialogue. Our 
light comedy still retains a good deal of vicious smart- 
ness, empty epigram, and funny triviality. But much 
of our modern serious drama is remarkable for honesty, 
directness, and simplicity of expression. 

The eavesdropping convention offers the dramatist 



30 THE DIVINE GIFT 

fine opportunities for painting realistic character in 
terse, modern, shorthand dialogue ; it gives him fine 
opportunities for irony, suggestion, and interrogation. 
It tends to exclude great passion and great emotion ; 
it tends to exclude imagination ; in its present develop- 
ment it is a foe to literature. It concerns itself to 
represent life ; it has almost forgotten to interpret 
life, It badly needs a chorus, for while it is generally 
clear in its presentation of facts, it is aptto be as obscure 
as Providence itself in its final design and intention. 
Obscurity of intention is permissible and even com- 
mendable in Providence, because it generates unques- 
tioning faith in believers. They enjoy it, and are 
confirmed by it. But playgoers are baffled by obscurity 
of intention ; therefore the liberty of mystification 
which may be freely accorded to Providence cannot 
be extended to the dramatist. Besides, when it comes 
to setting problems, the dramatist cannot hope to 
compete with Providence. 

The eavesdropping convention is developing a school 
of admirable realistic actors. We can scarcely go to 
an English play without seeing one or two little 
miniature gems of character. It has given us a body 
of actors and actresses who can render with extreme 
nicety all those actualities of the drawing-room and 
the street which are scarcely worth rendering. 

But as the eavesdropping convention tends to ex- 
clude emotion and imagination from our drama, so it 
tends to exclude emotion and imagination from our 
acting. Actors and actresses who naturally possess 
these high and rare gifts are left unpractised, 



THE DIVINE GIFT 31 

and never attain to a convincing expression of 
them. 

The eavesdropping convention encourages slovenly 
and careless elocution. How many pieces of great emo- 
tional and imaginative acting have we seen on the 
English stage in the last ten years ? And what hope 
is there for an emotional and imaginative drama 
without a correspondent method and spirit in our 
actors ? 

However, the dramatist who wishes to be successful 
will cheerfully accept the current convention of his 
day, and will work loyally within it, giving it what 
further development and twist he may, according to 
his strength and experience. 

You will notice that the following play easily accepts 
the eavesdropping convention, with its severe economy 
of scene, action, and personages. Nothing happens 
that could not very well have happened at Highgate, 
and in the time and sequence set down. I carefully 
repudiate any claim to merit on this account. I have 
done it merely to humour those playgoers who suppose 
that the practice of our eavesdropping convention 
necessarily implies the possession of greater and finer 
powers of construction than the practice of the Shake- 
spearean convention with its thirteen scenes in one 
act. The merest comparison of the two conventions 
will show that the modern one denies to the author all 
possibility of representing a great and varied range of 
characters in a great and varied scheme of present 
action. 

Under the eavesdropping convention the author 



32 THE DIVINE GIFT 

may crowd his three or four half -hour acts with rapid 
and unnatural sequences such as are plainly impos- 
sible. But in this case he sacrifices all credibility and 
verisimilitude of action, and probably sacrifices all 
truthfulness and delicacy of character. This method 
has been wholly rejected by our modern stage in 
comedy and serious drama, and has been largely 
rejected in farce. 

Or he may economise in both action and character. 
He may choose a story with a slight and simple action. 
He may a little unduly indulge his personages in the 
inveterate habit people have on the stage of dropping 
in ; and he may a little hurry up his meagre events in 
a sequence which on examination is as unlike real life 
as melodrama itself, but which his adroit handling has 
shaped into a plausible and superficial resemblance to 
real life, 

This is the formula which has given us the most 
successful plays of the last twenty years. 

But suppose a dramatist wishes to do something 
more than present the trivial actualities of the drawing- 
room and the street. Suppose he wishes to tell his 
audience all that is interesting and worth knowing in 
the history and characters of personages whom he has 
chosen because they have led varied and eventful lives, 
and have characters of deep and wide significance. 
Obviously the eavesdropping convention, in its present 
stage of development, is a terribly limiting one to the 
dramatist who has such an aim. 

And it offers scarcely any opportunity to literature. 
Its curt, bald, colloquial shorthand method is con- 



THE DIVINE GIFT 33 

temptuous of literature. Literature is discursive, opu- 
lent, abounding, leisurely. It abominates shorthand. 

I have lately read a printed copy of a current in- 
teresting and deservedly successful play. The dialogue 
was quite natural, sincere, unforced ; free from knotted 
paradox and pinchbeck epigram ; free from petty 
smartness, and the small fun of the cheap comic 
paper. But scarcely a line in the whole play was 
worth saying or worth remembering. It was as 
unsuggestive and unadorned as the talk one might 
overhear in a strictly disciplined city office. 

Now all great comedies and great dramas, besides 
being good actable plays, do hold their permanent 
place on the stage by virtue of saying something 
worth saying in a manner that makes it worth 
hearing, and heeding, and dwelling upon ; that is, by 
virtue of being pieces of literature. Sheridan's 
comedy remains, not because it has nature and truth, 
but because it is the vehicle of brilliant and 
memorable and distinguished conversation. 

In spite of much good solid honest work that has 
lately been done under the eavesdropping convention, 
will even one example of it take rank in English 
literature, and be continually read and played ? Will 
not its shorthand method, which is its chief merit in 
our eyes to-day, condemn all its works to perish very 
quickly ? 

But the eavesdropping convention is at present 
firmly established on our modern stage. In a recent 
play of mine I deliberately intruded an aside, as a legi- 
timate instrument for the revelation of character in a 

c 



34 THE DIVINE GIFT 

personage who wants to tell the audience what he is 
thinking while other people are on the stage. I was 
met with the blank surprise of the actress who had 
to speak it. The eavesdropping convention being the 
current one of our day, it is not wise to confuse simple- 
minded actresses and playgoers by introducing such 
startling novelties as the aside and the soliloquy. 
Let us then accept the eavesdropping convention, or 
any other convention that happens to be the least dis- 
turbing to playgoers. 

But we have seen that the eavesdropping conven- 
tion tends to check and banish literature. It has 
said some brilliant and penetrating things, but it has 
said them argumentatively, and while it has been 
saying them it has forgotten that the first business 
of the drama is to tell an interesting, progressive, and 
connected story. 

Is there an}^ way of developing the eavesdropping 
convention so as to bring it into closer union with 
literature, without losing its sincerity and natural- 
ness ; to make it say something worth saying in a 
manner worth heeding and dwelling upon ; to make 
it the vehicle of memorable and distinguished con- 
versation ; to do this while it also analyses character, 
and implicitly tells a natural, probable story ? 

Is not this formidable task the next one that lies 
before English dramatists ? It may be an impossible 
one. It may be that our eavesdropping convention 
will never offer any welcome or accommodation to 
literature. But it seems worth while to make an 
occasional experiment. 



THE DIVINE GIFT 35 

To be successful a new formula is needed. Evi- 
dently all the interesting events in the lives of the 
leading personages, and all the interesting phases and 
developments of their characters, cannot be crowded 
into three or four acts of present direct progressive 
action ; because, as I have already shown, this gives 
the impression of incredible melodrama, and allows 
scarcely any delineation of character. Therefore 
much of the action cannot be instantly and directly 
presented, but must be obliquely reflected from the 
past in sustained passages of kindled present emotion, 
or of kindled present curiosity, or of vivid comment. 
It is in these passages that literature may find its 
opportunity; for in this formula the eavesdropping 
convention could largely abandon its present curt, 
bald, choppy sentences. It could, however, retain its 
present natural and sincere tones and gestures. 
If such a formula could be established, the English 
drama could be made, not only to say something 
worth saying, but to say it in a manner that is worth 
heeding and dwelling upon ; a play might again be 
made the vehicle of memorable and brilliant and dis- 
tinguished conversation, without ceasing to tell a story. 

Mr. Walkley has said very truly that the modern 
drama does not give us the fine and subtle delights 
and infinite nuances of literature; it' does not tell us 
all we want to know about the most interesting 
people ; and what it does tell us, it generally tells us 
in a crude and superficial way. 

Now many of the delights of literature, the drama 
can never pretend to give. But in the past the 



36 THE DIVINE GIFT 

drama has given us some of the highest and rarest 
delights of literature. To be worth lasting considera- 
tion a play must give us some literary delight. 

The formula I have suggested, if it could be deve- 
loped and perfected so as to become the accepted 
formula for serious work on our stage, would give the 
dramatist some of the novelist's freedom in dealing with 
shades and subtleties of character. If men of letters 
who want to write plays would take the time and 
trouble to master its difficulties, it would give them 
a worthy means of expressing themselves in the 
theatre. If our present eavesdropping convention is 
to be retained, the formula that I am here suggesting 
is the only one that will afford to English literature 
anything more than a casual momentary union with 
the modern English drama. 

To be successful such a type of play needs 
quite a small theatre. We have several such 
theatres in London ; and the Little Theatre which 
Mr. Winthrop Ames has built in New York is a cosy, 
jewelled chapel for intellectual drama. 

Such a play needs to be launched before a specially 
trained, cultivated, leisurely, and sympathetic audi- 
ence. It would be courting failure to offer it to a 
haphazard first-night audience, with no preparation 
and foregained knowledge of it. 

The success of every play largely depends upon a 
receptive preparedness in the audience. I sauntered 
one day into a Quaker meeting-house and found 
there an accomplished negro minstrel playing the 
banjo to an audience of devout Turks, who supposed 



THE DIVINE GIFT 37 

themselves to be in the Mosque of Saint Sophia. 
The man played the banjo exquisitely, and the Turks 
were in a most blessed receptive condition ; but there 
was an air of irrelevancy about the proceedings. The 
minstrel complained to me afterwards that he could 
not get into touch with his audience. This same 
misfortune befell the Hebrew prophets, and myself also 
when "Michael and His Lost Angel" was produced, 
though I had not suspected any irrelevancy between 
the play and a Lyceum audience. However, a sound 
booing and hissing soon brought it home to me, and 
I have since been wary of approaching English play- 
goers on that level. The Hebrew prophets laid the 
blame on their audience in somewhat heightened 
language ; which is what dramatic authors are 
inclined to do when this irrelevancy occurs between 
their plays and playgoers. 

Again, the type of play I am here suggesting needs 
a company of actors and actresses who have a 
sympathetic apprehension of its aims, and who have 
so far exercised themselves in the necessary technique 
of their art as to be able to give point, variety, and 
natural fluency to continuous dignified speech. 

The late Sir William Gilbert used to say that we 
have not half a dozen actors or actresses on the 
English stage who can effectively and arrestingly 
deliver a speech of thirty lines, so as to avoid giving 
the impression that the author is a talkative bore. I 
have never noticed any sign of boredom in an audience 
when Sir Charles Wyndham has been delivering a long 
speech ; and I feel sure that a careful search and some 



38 THE DIVINE GIFT 

years of training would reveal at least five other English 
actors and actresses who might venture to accept 
Gilbert's most unkind challenge with some degree of 
assurance. 

Such a type of play is scarcely likely to be im- 
mediately successful with the great body of theatre- 
goers. But if it could be perfected in form and 
nursed into popularity, it is a type of play that 
our advanced playgoers might be proud of having 
adopted and encouraged. For it is a type of play that 
easily lends itself to the expression of ideas. 

And here, perhaps, is a fitting place to inquire 
what is the legitimate function of ideas in the drama. 
A drama without ideas is empty and sterile. That 
we all allow. But a drama that sets out to exploit 
and enforce ideas and opinions is of the nature of a 
political caucus, and ends by grinding out wind. 
Ideas should be posted all along the line of action, 
and should lurk there unsuspectedly, like spies and 
sappers and secret messengers of thought. Ideas 
should be the servants of the action. They should 
never control the action. They should never give 
marching orders. 

A dramatist will be wise to choose a well- tempered, 
well-trained main idea ; one that has been broken in, 
and will submit to being saddled and bridled, so that 
he can ride it on a loose and careless rein, with 
no danger of getting his neck broken by a fall, 
while the idea capers off and runs amuck on its own 
account. The field of the modern drama is strewn 
with disabled riders who have hastily mounted raw 



THE DIVINE GIFT 39 

wild colts of ideas, and never got home with them, 
but lie crippled and groaning while their ideas are 
aimlessly kicking and stampeding the country. Even 
Brieux, brave knight, fearless champion, practised 
horseman, rarely rides home in triumph, but generally 
returns afoot, dragging his steed after him. But he 
does get home. 

Some dramatists are so enamoured of ideas that 
instead of riding them, they offer them a back, and 
beseech their ideas to mount them and scour the broad 
land. Wisdom hails them in vain, nor will they heed 
any warning from this small weak voice. 

But by all means let us have ideas in the theatre. 
I have peppered the following pages with a few of 
them. I would not have dared to offer a play to you 
without some infusion of ideas. I hope they will be 
found to blend naturally with the action of the play. 
If they do not, they may perhaps be accepted as 
evidence of my earnest desire to please those advanced 
playgoers who have adopted as their motto, " Cut the 
hosses, and get on to the cackle." 

The type of play we have under consideration would 
therefore meet with your approval, inasmuch as it 
allows the introduction of ideas. And it calls on litera- 
ture to smelt and solidify these ideas, and give them 
a permanent form so that they may become operative. 
Ideas have no long-carrying force and sway unless they 
are compact with literature. They merely evaporate 
and wander into air. It was because the ideas of 
Burke and Rousseau and Voltaire were compact with 
literature that they became and remained operative. 



40 THE DIVINE GIFT 

Now undoubtedly there is a very considerable de- 
mand on our stage for ideas, but there is small or no 
demand for literature. Who reads our plays ? What 
weight and respect have they in the artistic and intel- 
lectual life of the nation ? On a first night how many 
playgoers watch if the dialogue which pleases and 
tickles them has any permanent quality in it, or even, 
indeed, if it is passable English ? 

Therefore such a type of play to be successful 
eminently needs the counterpane of vogue. 

Every play, like every human character, has many 
defects. The greater the man, the greater his virtues 
and achievements, the greater, it is most probable, are 
his vices and faults. The greater the play, the larger 
its aim, the newer its form, the weightier its sub- 
stance, the more defects it is likely to have. W T hat 
holes can be picked in CEdipus and Hamlet ! And 
by the law of public presentation these defects are 
searched for by a thousand eyes on every first night, 
and unless they are cloaked by the counterpane of 
vogue, they are apt to be more apparent than the 
virtues and excellences. 

the good thick warm counterpane of vogue ! 
How hardly shall a success be won for English litera- 
ture on the English stage outside its comfortable 
folds ! 

These considerations have led me to offer this play 
as an English man of letters before offering it to 
managers and to playgoers. 

The play is meant to be played whenever there 
appears to be a public demand for it. In the meantime 



THE DIVINE GIFT 41 

have I not done managers a good turn by removing 
from them all temptation to risk their money and the 
prestige of their theatre upon it ? Have I not done 
some hundreds or thousands of playgoers a good turn 
by refusing to drag them from their firesides, or to 
detach them from attendance at some other theatre, 
where they were likely to be amused or interested by 
less taxing means and methods ? Have I not done 
the actors and actresses a good turn by allowing them 
a temporary respite from Sir William Gilbert's ordeal ? 
Especially have I not done some leading actress a 
good turn in not asking her to lower her dignity by 
appearing in a play where it is plain the leading man's 
part is by far the better one ? And have I not done 
some leading actor a good turn in not asking him to 
lower his dignity by appearing in a play where it is 
equally plain that the leading lady's part is by far the 
better one ? 

Then there is the Censor. He has censored 
Sophocles, Shelley, Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Brieux, Shaw. 
Who knows whether he might not censor me ? Who 
knows — least of all himself — what and whom he may 
or may not censor ? Have I not done him a good turn 
in refusing for the present to impale him on the horns 
of his eternal dilemma? There is some reason to 
suspect that in this instance I have spared him the 
trouble of calling together that dread conclave whom 
he calls his "Advisory Committee," and of going 
through the solemn farce, either of censoring a 
play that in three years the playgoing public will 
force him to license, or of calling redoubled attention 



42 THE DIVINE GIFT 

to a fugitive fiasco that without his interference 
would have been forgotten in three weeks. 

Then there are the critics. I will ask them whether 
three out of the four evenings they now spend at the 
theatre might not be more amusingly and less irrita- 
tingly spent in that kind of holy downward personal 
contemplation which a Buddhist sect finds so con- 
soling? It is for them to say. But at least the 
practice I am here advocating of first publishing all 
plays intended for public representation would ease 
the critics of some part of the intolerable burden 
of attending every first performance given at some 
thirty or forty London theatres. Why should not so 
kindly and time-saving a custom become usual 
amongst us ? In any case, with the present impossi- 
bility of giving anything like ample treatment to 
play and acting and scenery, and doing justice to 
himself in the short hour now allowed him after 
representation, a critic might reasonably say to an 
author, " Print your play and let me have a copy a 
week or two before production. If I find it worth 
serious attention, I may perhaps drop in at the theatre 
and have a look at it. If it isn't worth serious 
attention in the study, it cannot be worth very pro- 
longed and serious attention in the theatre." And if 
the author demurred that the interest would then be 
gone on the first night, it would be a confession that 
his play depended for success either upon theatrical 
surprises and devices, or upon the vogue and per- 
sonality of the actors, and that in his own opinion it 
had no lasting intrinsic merit of its own. 



THE DIVINE GIFT 43 

Further, am I not doing a good turn to authors in 
urging the general publication of a play prior to 
representation? And here I am not speaking of 
authors who are necessarily compelled to publish 
because they have no hope of public representation, 
but also of those authors whose plays have already an 
assured and announced production. Amongst the many 
factors that unite to make an immediate theatrical 
success, what are the chiefly potent and operative ones ? 
I will try to put them in their order so far as my own 
experience may guide me. 

1. The vogue of the leading actor or actress, apart 
from his talent. 

2. The vogue of the theatre. 

3. The vogue of the author, apart from his present 
work. Vogue will never save a bad uninteresting play, 
but it will keep limping it on. And it will cover the 
defects of a good play, which without it would be 
wrecked on minor points, or die before it secured 
popular attention. " Arms and the Man " was hissed 
on its first production, and might have been lost to 
the stage if its author had not got possession of the 
counterpane. 

4. The personality of the leading actor, or actress, 
getting a chance to express itself in a striking way, 
in a striking and suitable character. 

5. Capable and dovetailing stage management. 

6. The novelty or sudden popularity of the theme. 

7. A smooth ensemble of intelligent and sympathetic 
representation. 

8. A happy relevancy of mood and taste in the 



44 THE DIVINE GIFT 

first-night audience. It is useless to play the banjo 
exquisitely to a band of devout Turks in a Quaker 
meeting-house. 

9. The weather ; the absence of any public distrac- 
tion or calamity ; the absence from any other theatres 
of any pronounced success of a play of a similar 
class. 

10. The desire of playgoers to see any play that 
is talked about ; their frantic crush to get into any 
theatre whose seats are booked against them ; their 
sheep-like impulse to do what and go where the 
other sheep are doing and going. When I was a boy 
tending my father's sheep, as I drove them along, some 
old bell-wether would take it into his head suddenly 
to jump five feet high and six feet wide over a three- 
inch trickling ditch. Every sheep, as it came up, 
would jump exactly the same height and distance. 
How often do we see the public jumping for months 
together five feet high over a three-inch puddle ! 

11. 12, 13. Heaven knows what. 

14. The author's bare work, apart from his reputa- 
tion and vogue ; his actual manuscript as it is in the 
hands of the prompter at the wings every evening. 

It will be said that in showing that the author's 
actual work counts so little for success I have proved 
too much. Ko, I have merely shown another reason 
that we have no English national drama, According 
to the view that is taken of the relative importance 
of the drama and the theatre, and according to the 
class of play, it may be urged, on the one hand, that 
the author's work is an almost negligible factor, or, on 



THE DIVINE GIFT 45 

the other hand, that it is the supreme and dominating 
factor. Unquestionably, in plays that are worth 
serious consideration the author's work should be the 
supreme and dominating factor, as it always becomes 
in the final judgment of a play — if there is any final 
judgment, after the first theatrical success or failure. 
What I am here concerned to establish, is the fact 
that unless a modern play gets its correct method of 
interpretation by actors with the right personalities, 
trained in its own school, the author's work and aims 
are not seen, and cannot be judged in the theatre. 
They are obscured by the primary thirteen factors 
which on our modern stage make for theatrical success, 
and which should be secondary and auxiliary. 

Yet the author is always blamed and held account- 
able for a failure. Take the hundreds and thousands 
of plays that have been produced during the last 
twenty years at London theatres. Read all the 
notices. Is there any single known instance when 
the actors and representation have been blamed for a 
failure? Yet out of all the thousands of cases, there 
must surely have been some few where they have 
been responsible for the failure of good work. But if 
favourite actors are seen working hard and doing 
their best, it is always judged that they have conveyed 
the author's exact intention, and given a full and 
correct interpretation of the play. 

I shall doubtless be severely challenged on this 
point. All the factors are so variable and complex, 
and the opinions formed of them are so multitudinous 
and conflicting, that it would be impossible to prove 



46 THE DIVINE GIFT 

my contention in the case of any individual modern 
play without presenting it anew in several differing 
ways. 

But I may point to the fact that the same play — 
" Hamlet," " The Winter's Tale," " Twelfth Night," 
" Othello," " The School for Scandal," to say nothing of 
countless modern plays — has met with enormous success 
or abject failure accordingtothe different circumstances 
and conditions which have governed the individual 
production. The individual production which has 
failed has apparently been guided by equal taste, fore- 
thought, and enthusiasm as the production which has 
met with enormous success, The play has been inter- 
preted by actors apparently as skilled, and of as good 
a reputation. In both productions the author's work 
has remained constant. Yet one production has met 
with great success ; the other with total failure. So 
it must be granted that it is the attendant circum- 
stances and conditions rather than the author's work 
which determine the success of a play in the 
theatre. In the case of an old and well-known play, 
the author is not blamed, because the play has already 
proved itself to be a stage success. But in the case 
of a modern play the author is always blamed, and 
has no means of showing that the failure was due to 
faults and caprices of production; or to its not 
having received a representation, appropriate to his 
class of work, and coincident with his methods. I am 
speaking now of work that has serious pretensions, 
and whose success entitles a country to claim that it 
has a live national drama. 



THE DIVINE GIFT 47 

Again, if any unoccupied person with no better 
way of wasting his time will take the trouble to 
read a large number of modern plays that have failed, 
and compare them with an equal number of modern 
plays that have succeeded, he will be driven to the 
conclusion that the actual work of the author is often 
no better, either from the literary or the theatrical 
standpoint, in the plays that have triumphantly 
succeeded than in the plays that have dismally failed. 
That is to say the author is mainly judged, not by 
his work, but upon a consensus of favourable or 
unfavourable conditions which are out of his control. 

For these reasons I think that in advocating the 
publication of plays prior to their production, I may 
claim that I am doing a good turn to those authors 
who wish for a thoughtful consideration, and a well- 
founded estimate of the permanent value of their 
work. Of course publication will never protect from 
failure any play, or any individual production of a 
play, that has in it no germ of potential success in the 
theatre. But publication does afford the best and 
easiest means of winnowing the wheat from the chaff, 
and of judging whether a play has any claims to serious 
consideration, that is to rank as literature. What 
pride can English dramatists take in their art, what 
rank can they claim for their calling while a shrewd 
collector of first editions can taunt them with the 
fact that in possessing the first editions of Sheridan's 
and Goldsmith's plays he has garnered all the harvest 
of the English drama for two centuries ? 

Further, publication, either before or after produc- 



48 THE DIVINE GIFT 

tion, cannot be shown to have damaged the success of 
any play on the boards ; rather, indeed, it may claim 
in some instances to have secured or assisted a follow- 
ing theatrical production. Therefore I think it must 
be conceded that I am also doing a good turn to 
dramatic authors. 

Thus it appears that in publishing this play before 
offering it to managers and the public I have inci- 
dentally done a good turn to everybody connected with 
the theatre and the drama ; to managers, playgoers, 
actors and actresses, to the Censor of plays and his 
advisory committee, to dramatic critics, and to 
dramatic authors. I am amazed to discover that I 
am possessed of such a vast amount of all-round 
benevolence. 

In our judgment of acting we have an amiable 
unwritten rule which runs to the effect that if any 
actor is found to be kind to his mother ; or to possess 
an agreeable social manner ; or if he is a manager ; 
or if he modestly boasts that he always produces plays 
with a glaringly high moral or religious purpose ; or 
if he prints his name in very large letters — he may 
on any of these counts be forgiven for showing us a 
reasonable amount of bad acting. I hope that this 
charitable rule of judgment may in time be so far 
widened as to include dramatic authors within its 
scope, and I humbly suggest that such a vast amount 
of all-round benevolence as I have here displayed 
may plead for my forgiveness if I have written a 
bad play. 

I fear it will have occurred to you that this over- 



THE DIVINE GIFT 49 

flowing benevolence of mine might very well have 
been extended so far as to spare you this dedication. 
And that way my natural goodness of heart inclined 
me. But rumours of my demise have been spread on 
both sides of the Atlantic. There is considerable 
uncertainty about the matter, so much so that, as 
you see, I have become infected with doubt myself. 
I hope, therefore, you will excuse me for taking this 
opportunity of again submitting the question to your 
better judgment. 

And, further, the practice of dedicating a play to 
some distinguished man of letters is one that might 
profitably be adopted in our English theatre. In 
this way the English drama and English literature 
might become better acquainted with each other. 
The English theatre might learn what English 
literature is like ; English literature might learn 
what the English theatre is like. It is impossible 
to say whose eyes would be the widest opened, but 
some enlightenment could not fail to follow on both 
sides. Every English playwright would have his 
correspondent English man of letters whom he would 
hold as a kind of patron saint — in all questions that 
relate to literature. Every English man of letters 
would have his trusty dependent playwright by his 
side, ready to tender opportune little hints upon all 
matters connected with the theatre. 

I forbear to indicate what individual man of letters 
is suitable to each individual playwright. But I plead 
very earnestly that Mr. Birrell may be given another 
chance. 



50 THE DIVINE GIFT 

I find that I have not yet given you any sufficient 
reason for accepting the dedication of this play. 
I feel sure you would agree with me in thinking that 
English plays should be worthy the approval and 
acceptance of English scholars and men of letters. 
On this narrow basis of accord in a very general 
maxim, and not on the plea that I am here offering 
you something of present or lasting worth, I once 
more beg your permission to put your name at the 
head of this preface. 

I repeat the play is meant to be acted. Without 
more ado, I push it off into the crowded stream of 
printed matter to find what harbourage or sinking 
place it may. 

With great respect and admiration, and with many 
apologies for my recalcitrant vitality, 

I am, 

Faithfully yours, 

HENRY ARTHUR JONES 

P.S. Et Fragonard ? 



THE DIVINE GIFT 



CHARACTERS 

Andkew Cutler 

George Nokton 
Will Jan way 
John Tre,;anza 
Seccombe 
Sandford 

Lora Delmar 
Evie Jan way 

The scene is laid throughout in the study of Cutler's house at 
Highgate. The time is the present. The First Act tales 
place on a morning in November ; the Second, on the evening 
of the same day ; the Third, on an evening in early June of 
t h e folio w ing yea r. 



ACT I 

Scene : Andrew Cutler's very tastefully and carefully 
furnished study in an eighteenth-century house at 
Highgate. Wide French ivindoivs have been in- 
serted in the wall at back, opening upon a balcony 
which looks immediately upon an old garden, and 
beyond the garden wall upon the wooded landscape 
that lies north-westward of London. Towards the 
back on the right side is a door. In the left-hand 
corner at back is a small curtained space with a 
wash-basin and towels. Near the audience in the 
wall on the left is an Adam's fireplace. Above it, 
fronting the audience, is a large comfortable old 
sofa. A flat writing-table is doion on the right 
side, with an arm-chair placed to it on its right. 
The floor is almost covered by a rich Eastern carpet. 
The entire wall space is occupied by book-shelves 
containing well-bound volumes of all sizes and 
descriptions, such as would be found in the library 
of a man with cultivated literary tastes. All the 
furniture is of the best period in the eighteenth 
century. The room has nothing in it that is not 
beautiful or tasteful ; it is not crowded, and gives 
an impression of unobtrusive richness and comfort. 
The time is near noon on a dull November morning. 
A bright fire is burning. The windows at back 
55 



56 THE DIVINE GIFT act i 

are closed, and the outside wintry landscape is 
dimly seen through a light grey mist. 

Discover Andrew Cutler and Seccombe, his secretary. 
Cutler is a distinguished-looking, intellectual 
Englishman about sixty ; his features are regular, 
refined and, sharp ; his complexion is rather pale ; 
his eyes are bright and piercing, and a little sunk 
under a fine unwrinkled forehead ; his hair is 
silver-grey, his eyebroivs silver-grey and a little 
bushy; he is well-built and well-preserved; of 
medium height. He is always well dressed. This 
morning he wears an easy silk smoking -jacket and 
fine embroidered slippers. He is walking diagonally 
across the room, smokiny a cigar ; dictating to 
Seccombe. 

Seccombe is seated at the writing-table taking down 
Cutler's sentences in shorthand. Seccombe is a 
short, dry, thick-set man about forty-five, with 
stolid features, and a laconic, stolid manner ; 
coarse, sandy -grey hair, bald on the top ; rather 
slovenly dress ; he speaks sloidy and rather gruffly 
with a cultivated accent. lie is evidently on a 
footing of social equality ivith Cutler. 

Cutler. [Walking, dictating.] " The present rebel- 
lion of women and the present rebellion of labour 
throughout the civilised world, may therefore be 
classed together as a twin revolt against the detest- 
able and tyrannical conditions which misguided 
Nature has for the moment imposed upon the human 
species." 



act i THE DIVINE GIFT 57 

Secoombe. [Writing.] "Species." 

Cutler. " This twin revolt is wholly reasonable and 
wholly just. For what can be more unreasonable or 
more unjust than to demand from any cultured, self- 
respecting miner that he should toil and sweat in 
darkness and filth for eight or even for four hours 
daily, while other members of the same society are 
talking philosophy, or flirting with agreeable persons 
over coffee and cigars." 

Seccombe. [Looking up.] Aren't you cutting the 
irony a little too fine ? 

Cutler. Impossible. Irony is a trap. You must 
always bait it so slyly that the fools swallow their 
purge and think it's sugar-candy. Joab kissed Abner 
as he smote him under the fifth rib. That's irony. 
Go on, Seccombe. [Walking about, dictating.] "Again, 
what can be more unreasonable, more unjust, more 
viciously one-sided than that only one-half of 
human kind, and this the weaker and more delicate 
sex, should be called upon to endure the agony of that 
other labour, whereby Nature has so carelessly and 
clumsily contrived that our race should be renewed." 

Seccombe. [Writing^] "Renewed." 

Cutler. [Warming a little with his theme.] "More- 
over, this twin revolt is seen to be inevitable, and will 
be perpetual from the moment that labourers and 
women reach the lower standards of education pre- 
scribed in our Government schools. This rebellion 
will not subside under our present conditions. Least 
of all will it be frightened into silence by the ancient 
spectres of Duty and Religion. Clergymen and 



58 THE DIVINE GIFT act i 

moralists may be entreated to pack up their venerable 

bogies," [Pause. 

Seccombe. [Writing.] " Bogies." 

Cutler. [Dictating.] "For it is clear that to-day 

the whole Religion of labour is to throw down its 

tools. And the whole Duty of woman is to rebel " 

[Enter Sandford, announcing. 
Sandford. Mrs. Janway. 

[Cutler shows slight annoyance at being dis- 
turbed. 
[Enter Evie Janway. Exit Sandford. 
[Evie is a very pretty, well-dressed woman of 
about twenty-seven, with small bewitching 
features, and an elegant figure, wrapped in 
expensive furs. 
Evie. Good-morning, Guardy. [Kissing him. 

Cutler. Good-morning, my dear. 
Evie. Good-morning, Mr. Seccombe. 
Seccombe. Good-morning. 

Evie. [To Cutler.] Don't tell me you're busy, 
because you mustn't be, just now. 

Cutler. I was just giving down an article. 
Evie. It can wait for half an hour? I'm sure it 
can. 

Cutler. [With a little ruefiil look at Seccombe.] 
Seccombe, would you mind stepping into the next 
room ? 

Seccombe, Certainly. [Exit, 

Cutler. I thought you'd gone back to Oakminster. 
Evie. So we did. 



act i THE DIVINE GIFT 59 

Cutler. Up in town again ? 

Evie. Yes. 

Cutler. You seem to be having a good time of it. 

Evie. [Bitterly.] You think so? [With conviction^ 
Guardy, there isn't a more miserable woman in 
London than I am. 

Cutler. [Looks at her for a moment.'] Well, appear- 
ances are deceptive. 

Evie. But I am ; utterly miserable, utterly 
wretched. 

Cutler. Been having another tiff with Will ? 

Evie. Tiff? We had a final quarrel the night 
before last, and a final understanding yesterday 
morning. 

Cutler. Then matters have reached a stable 
equilibrium ? 

Evie. Please don't chaff me. I've come to you as 
my guardian, because I feel sure your sympathies 
will be on my side. [She looks at him covertly ; he 
does not reply.] Aren't they ? [ Goes to him very affec- 
tionately ; throws him a pretty, bewitching look of 
entreaty.] They ought to be. 

Cutler. Certainly, my dear ; of course my sympa- 
thies are on your side. [Evie kisses him affectionately.] 
Now, this quarrel with Will — what's it all about ? 

Evie. Stanislas Karlinski and Madame Schne- 
berger were giving a concert at Oakminster the night 
before last. So I booked places for Will and myself, 
went up to their hotel, and got them to promise to 
dine with us before the concert. I told Will we 
should have to sit down punctually at a quarter to 



60 THE DIVINE GIFT act i 

seven, and asked him to get home from the factory 
and dress in time. Well, a quarter to seven came, 
and no Will. So we sat down — just four or five 
dainty little courses. At a quarter past seven, Will 
turned up with Mr. and Mrs. Pumphrey — all in 
morning dress. 

Cutler. Who are the Pumphreys ? 

Evie. Business friends of Will's, rolling in money 
— the dullest and stupidest old fossils. Think of the 
British Museum, think of " God Save the King," 
think of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and you've 
got the Pumphreys. 

Cutler. I've got them. 

Evie, Don't you think it was in very bad taste of 
Will to bring people like the Pumphreys to meet 
Stanislas Karlinski and Schneberger ? 

Cutler. He certainly oughtn't to bring people to 
dinner without letting you know. 

Evie. He did it simply to annoy me, and humiliate 
me before my friends. 

Cutler. Oh, I can't think that of Will. 

Evie. But he did. He knows my sensitive nature ; 
and he constantly does things like that, merely for 
the pleasure of seeing me writhe and quiver. I feel 
like some poor, frightened little bird in the grasp of a 
cruel boy. 

Cutler. You don't look like it, 

Evie. [Looks at him.] Ah, my dear Guardy, you've 
only seen the outside of my married life ! 

Cutler. Well, about this dinner — what did you 
do? 



act i THE DIVINE GIFT 61 

Evib. I made the best of it, as I always do, I 
explained the situation to Karlinski and Schneberger 
in French, and apologized to them. Will immediately 
contradicted me in English, and apologized for me to 
the Pumphreys. 

Cutler. What happened then ? 

Evie. After that I let things take their course. 
When I tried to make myself agreeable to Mrs. 
Pumphrey, Will sat and scowled at Stanislas 
Karlinski. When I asked the servants to hurry 
with our souffle, Will told them to bring up 
the cold veal-and-ham pie. Can you imagine the 
situation ? 

Cutler. Faintly. What was the sequel ? 

Evie. I passed it off quite amiably for the time, 
knowing that I should see Will alone when I came 
back from the concert. 

Cutler. And you did ! 

Evie. Yes. When I got home the Pumphreys 
were just going. Sol said " Good-night" to them 
very pleasantly and then [Pause, 

Cutler. Then there was what old-fashioned play- 
wrights call a scene- a- j "aire ? 

Evie. No, I didn't make a scene. 

Cutler. You carefully avoided it, as our modern 
dramatists do ? 

Evie. [Very reproachfully.] Guard y, I've thrown 
myself upon your sympathy at the supreme crisis of 
my life. You must please take me seriously. 

Cutler. I will, my dear, I will. Then after the 
Pumphreys had gone, you didn't make a scene ? 



62 THE DIVINE GIFT act i 

Evie. Not at first. All through the concert I was 
schooling myself to keep my temper, because I felt 
sure that would make Will lose his. I never feel 
myself so superior to Will as when he's raging and 
shouting, and I'm calm and dignified. 

Cutler. How did Will take it ? 

Evie. He wanted to sulk off to bed. 

Cutler. Rather mean of him. You didn't let him ? 

Evie. No. I said a few cutting satirical things 
about the Pumphreys 

Cutler. That drew him ? 

Evie. Yes. He turned round on me, and stamped 
and shouted and swore — you never saw such a scene. 

Cutler. You kept calm and dignified ? 

Evie. Yes. I was quite patient under it all, till 
he began to abuse my friends. That roused me. 
People may attack me as much as they please, and I 
remain silent. But the moment they attack my 
friends, all my better instincts flame up. And when 
he called Stanislas a " greasy fiddler " 

Cutler. You remained silent no longer ? 

Evie. No, I told him exactly what I thought of 
all his friends and relations — particularly his Aunt 
Julia. 

Cutler. His Aunt Julia ? 

Evie. She's a confirmed gin-drinker ! Actually 
goes out to a public-house in her dressing-gown to 
get it. 

Cutler. Aunt Julia was a clinching argument. I 
hope Will had the decency to shut up after Aunt 
Julia. 



act i THE DIVINE GIFT 63 

Evie. No. He raked out everything against my 
relations, and against everybody I had ever brought 
into the house. He bullied and raved, and threw a 
glass of whisky over my new white satin dress. 

Cutler. That was wasting good whisky and satin. 
Still he'll have to pay for both. How did the situa- 
tion develop after that ? 

Evie. He almost struck me 

Cutler. Almost? 

Evie. Well, he shook me. I called out for help, 
and then one of my fainting attacks came on. In- 
stead of trying to bring me to, he sneaked off to bed, 
not knowing whether I was alive or dead. When I 
came to, I was alone. It was a quarter to two, so I 
staggered up to my own room as best I could. Don't 
you think it was brutal of him to leave me in that 
condition ? 

Cutler. It wasn't very considerate. However, you 
had a thorough understanding yesterday morning ? 

Evie. Yes. We discussed it quite calmly, and came 
up to town last night. 

Cutler. Will's in town, is he ? 

Evie. Yes, he has gone to a lawyer's 

Cutler. What for ? 

Evie. To arrange for our divorce. 

Cutler. Divorce ? On what ground ? 

Evie. General grounds. We aren't the least suited 
to each other. 

Cutler. Yes, but that ground would automatically 
dissolve nine marriages out of ten. Incompatibility 
of mental and social atmosphere ? My dear Evie, 



64 THE DIVINE GIFT act i 

you can't get a divorce for that, even in these easy- 
going days. 

Evie. Oh yes, we can. Will has arranged to desert 
me. My lawyer will apply for a restitution of con- 
jugal rights. Will won't obey the order of the Court. 
He'll take somebody down to Brighton and let my 
lawyers know. I shall bring a petition, and my 
lawyers will prove that the Brighton lady wasn't me. 
That's all. It's quite the recognised thing. 

Cutler. Yes, I know. But I shan't recognise it. 
And I should have thought you would find it a very 
unpleasant business to be mixed up in. 

Evie. Oh, I shan't be mixed up in it, except just 
to go down to the Court. Will has to settle all the 
details. 

Cutler. Oh, that falls to the man ? 

Evie. Of course! You wouldn't expect the woman 
to degrade herself. [Coming up to him affectionately.'] 
Now, Guardy, you aren't going to be disagreeable and 
try to prevent my getting my liberty ? 

Cutler. I shan't let you go through the Divorce 
Court, if I can help it. My dear Evie, you surely 
can't mean this. You have what most women would 
consider a very enviable lot — a tolerably good husband 
as husbands go, a pretty home, a handsome income ; 
you come up to town every few weeks ; you go every- 
where, see everything ; you've nothing to do but enjoy 
yourself. You ought to be happy. 

Evie. Ought to be happy ? Of course I ought ! No 
woman has a greater natural capacity for happiness 
than I have. Then why am I so miserable ? 



act i THE DIVINE GIFT 65 

Outler. Happiness is a by-product. It's a deposit 
thrown down from work and duty. Do your duty 
fearlessly and your work thoroughly, and life secretes 
a residuum of happiness. 

Evie. It hasn't secreted any residuum in my 
case. 

Cutler. What about the work and duty? It's 
evidently your duty to go back to Will and make him 
a good wife. Come ! He isn't a bad sort. Many 
women would be glad to have such a husband. 

Evie. Oh, I don't deny that Will has some good 
qualities. He would have made an excellent husband 
to a woman on his own level. And [ivith great convic- 
tion] what a splendid wife I should have made, if I had 
happened to find the right man ! 

Cutler. What sort of a man would that be ? 

Evie. One who could enter into all my aspirations, 
and share my love of art and beauty ; surround me 
with congenial friends, instead of such people as the 
Pumphreys ; encourage me to develop my own natural 
gifts, to do something great, be something great — 
how I could have worshipped such a man ! 

Cutler. Such a man as ? For instance, among 

your old acquaintances, whom would you have chosen 
for a husband ? Tom Standish ? 

Evie, Oh, he thinks of nothing but himself. He 
smokes the best cigars, and lets his wife travel third 
class. 

Cutler. Lorry Baxenden? 

Evie. No, he thinks of nothing but his tailor. 

Cutler. Jim Crawshay ? 



66 THE DIVINE GIFT act i 

Evie. No, I should have to come second to his 
horses and dogs. I must be first or nowhere. 

Cutlee. Roger Fennell? 

Evie. [Disgusted.] Oh no! He always paws you. 
I can't bear to be pawed. 

Cutler. Dr. Kernshaw ? 

Evie. Oh, I couldn't be a doctor's wife ! Their work 
is so revolting. I should always be seeing operations. 

Cutler. Well, whom shall we say ? Take your own 
choice. 

Evie. I've often pictured the man ] 

Cutler. But you've never met him ? 

Evie. No, but he exists. One day I shall meet him. 

Cutler. Not on this terrestrial sphere, my dear 
Evie. Meantime I should advise you to put up with 
Will as a makeshift. 

Evie. No, my dear Guardy. Will and I discussed 
it, and we have made up our minds for a divorce. 

Cutler. And then ? What's your next step ? 

Evie. I'm going out to Switzerland for the time 

Cutler. While Will, like a good husband, sta'ys at 
home and gets the divorce ? 

Evie. Yes. 

Cutler. Well, you'll have the best of him there. 
What are you going to do in Switzerland ? 

Evie. I'm going to find some restful, secluded place 
in the High Alps, where I can see things clearly, and 
map out some great future for myself. 

Cutler, What particular kind of great future ? 

Evie. I can't say. I've made one terrible mistake 
in life. I mustn't make a second. 



* 



act i THE DIVINE GIFT 67 

Cutler. No, you mustn't. But I've noticed that 
when women forsake their natural vocation of love- 
making, they generally take up with something far 
less agreeable — parsons, nursing, slumming, female 
suffrage, dumb animals. Mrs. Leverett has tried 
them all, and now, instead of keeping a home for one 
husband, she keeps a home for forty cats. 

Evie. I shall not choose any ordinary vocation. 

Cutler. No? 

Evie. I could be quite content to inspire some man, 
if he, on his side, would share his fame with me, and 
let it be known that he owes it all to me. 

Cutler. Why not inspire Will ? 

Evie. Inspire Will % He is a carpet manufacturer. 

Cutler, Inspire him to make better carpets. 

Evie. [Looks at him reproachfully,'] Dear kind 
Guaidy, do please take me seriously. Do please 
realize that I am in earnest. I long to inspire a man 
to write some great poem, to paint some great picture ! 
And you calmly tell me to inspire my husband ! 

Cutler. Oh, I know other women's husbands offer 
the best raw material for inspiration. But that leads 
to difficulties. My young friend Dick Wilby got 
Mrs. Fitchell to inspire him to write his novels. Mrs. 
Wilby didn't like it, and now Dick has to pay his wife 
a thousand a year alimony; his books don't sell, and 
he's saddled with Mrs. Fitchell in a Bloomsbury 
lodging-house. And not a farthing's worth of inspira- 
tion can he get out of her. 

Evie. I should not enter into immoral relations with 
the man whom I inspire. 



68 THE DIVINE GIFT act i 

Cutler. You wouldn't wish him to be your 
lover ? 

Evie. Not in the objectionable sense. Bomney was 
not Lady Hamilton's lover. 

Cutler. No. I believe their relations were quite 
proper. Like those of Dante and Beatrice. 

Evie. That is how I would prefer them to be. Then 
I should know his devotion to be thoroughly unselfish. 

Cutler. Bather hard on the poor fellow, not to 
throw him in some little bonus, eh ? 

Evie. I must respect the man whom I inspire. And 
he must respect me. 

Cutler. Well, my dear Evie, I don't think there is 
much of a career for you as an inspirer, You'll find 
it very difficult to catch your inspiree. Better try 
some other walk in life. 

Evie. Of course I would much rather make a name 
on my own account. And now that I am free, there 
are so many paths before me. 

Cutler. Such as 

Evie. All the arts are open to me. 

Cutler. Yes, that's the best of the arts — they're 
always open to everybody. 

Evie. And I love them all ! Painting, sculpture, 
literature — I wish you'd read the first chapter of a 
novel I've written — the stage, music — you're devoted 
to music — wouldn't you wish to see your little Evie a 
great musician ? 

Cutler. Nothing would please me better. But 

Evie. Now, you're not to discourage me. [With in- 
tense conviction.] Guardy, I feel, I know, I've got it in 
me — here! [Striking her fist on her breast.] 



act i THE DIVINE GIFT 69 

Cutler. We've all got it in us ! The bother is, it 
won't come out. The artist has got it in him, and 
manages to bring it out. That's the difference between 
us and the artist. 

Evie. The difference between you and the artist, 
you mean ! [With intense conviction.'] I mean to bring 
it out ! It's here ! [Striking her breast.] It shall come 
out ! I want to meet Lora Del mar again. 

Cutler. What for ? 

Evie. I think I shall decide upon music, and I 
should like to talk over my future with her. She's a 
great friend of yours, isn't she ? 

Cutler. I used to see a good deal of her three or four 
years ago, when George Norton and she first came to- 
gether. Lately, I haven't seen so much of her. That 
night when you and Will met her here at dinner is the 
only time I've seen her for months. 

Evie. Couldn't you ask her here to meet me ? I 
scarcely had any chance of speaking to her that night. 
Everybody wanted to monopolise her. I can't under- 
stand it ! 

Cutler. What? 

Evie. Why, everybody raves about her. 

Cutler,. She has a rare and beautiful personality, 
and a rare and beautiful voice. She's an actress who 
can sing, and a singer who can act. 

Evie. Yes, but other people can sing and act, and 
have rare and beautiful personalities. Really, I don't 
see why all the world should go mad about her! 
There's a Lora Delmar aeroplane, and a Lora Delmar 
handbag, and they've just brought out a Mousse Lora 
Delmar at the Ritz. Guardy, answer me one question ? 



70 THE DIVINE GIFT act i 

Cutler. Well ? 

Evie. Why is that woman allowed to have nothing 
but triumph and adoration and happiness, while I 
have nothing but misery and disappointment ? Why 
has she got all London at her feet, while I am buried 
in a dull little hole like Oakminster, amongst people 
like the Pumphreys ? 

Cutler. Ah, now you've got hold of the Philo- 
sopher's Puzzle. Why was this world constructed with 
such a brutal disregard for the wishes of its in- 
habitants ? Why didn't I have the making of 
it? I should have laid it out as a velvet 
lounge for working men, and a garden paradise 
for women. And God has gone and made it so 
different. 

Evie. And she isn't a good woman. Everybody 
knows that. George Norton is her lover. 

Cutler. Morality curtsies to great artists. 

Evie. But you don't defend it ? 

Cutler. No, I don't defend it. I accept it. 

Evie. And George Norton's wife accepts it ? 

Cutler. Oh, George and his wife long ago arrived at 
an understanding that they should each go their own 
.ways. 

Evie. And society accepts it, and knows 8.11 about 
it, and yet runs after her. 

Cutler. Yes; but not because she lives with 
George Norton. But because she has a wonderful 
voice that goes straight to the heart. We are right 
not to question a great artist, but to accept him. 
But right or wrong, we all do it. You do it. You 



act i THE DIVINE GIFT 71 

dined with her here the other night, and you want 
to meet her again. 

Evie. I want to find out why it is she has got this 
tremendous hold upon everybody. I want to find out 
her secret. 

Cutler. Ah, don't, my dear Evie. Don't look at 
the roots. 

Evie. The roots of what ? 

Cutler. [Takes up a fine azalea in a pot.] Art is a 
flower that bursts out in a nation, or an individual, 
just where the vigour and health of the stem begin 
to exhaust themselves and die in bloom and perfume. 
It springs from — [digging up the earth in the pot]. It 
is nourished by the mud and manure and corruption 
of life. There's a lot of manure round these roots. 
Do you want to see it ? [Turning up the roots.] 

Evie. [Turns away disgusted.] Oh don't ! 

Cutler. [Putting down the azalea?^ I'll ask Lora 
Delmar to meet you, if you wish. But you won't find 
out much about her. 

Evie. I suppose there's a good deal to be known 
about her that's very horrid ? 

Cutler. There's a good deal to be known about all 
of us that's very horrid. But it isn't worth knowing. 

Evie. She's married, isn't she ? 

Cutler. Her husband died a year or two ago. I 
never met him. I never met her till George Norton 
brought her here. 

Evie. They say she has had several lovers. 

Cutler. They say — anything. I don't know what 
Loia Delmar's life was before she met George Norton. 



72 THE DIVINE GIFT act i 

I do know what the lives of nearly all the supreme 
artists have been. They make the saddest reading. 
If you want information on the subject, read the 
memoirs of Rachel, the great French actress. No, 
don't. They'd only shock you. Read Matthew 
Arnold's sonnets to her. Don't dig up the manure 
round the roots. 

Evie. I don't see any reason why I shouldn't be a 
great artist, and yet remain a perfectly pure, good, 
respectable woman. 

Cutlee. Very few women can be great artists, or 
even artists at all. Some women can't even be good 
and respectable. But I'm quite sure it's far better, 
and far easier, for any woman to be good and 
respectable, than to be a great artist. 

Evie. You think it's impossible to be both ? 

Cutler. I won't say it's impossible. And I do 
know that some of the greatest artists have wrecked 
their health, shortened their lives, and ruined their 
best work, by their passions and vices. Perhaps the 
Puritans were right. Perhaps it's better for a nation 
to have no art. 

Evie. Well, I've made up my mind to be a great 
artist, You'll help me, won't you ? 

Cutler. How? 

Evie. You'll see that Will makes me a comfortable 
settlement, so that I can start on my artistic career 
without being worried about money. 

Cutler. I'm not going to help you to get a divorce, 
my dear Evie. 

Evie. Then we shall have to get it without you. 



act i THE DIVINE GIFT 73 

You know, Guardy, you can't stop us. But it would 
help me so much if the world knew that I had your 
sympathy and support. 

Cutler. Suppose you don't bring it off as a great 
artist ? 

Evie. I shall. I know I shall. I've got it here ! 
Guardy, I do think you owe it to me to stand by me 
now. You allowed me to marry Will, though with 
your experience you must have seen that with my 
temperament, I could never be happy with him. 

Cutler. I allowed you to marry Will because I 
thought you stood about as good a chance of being 
happy with him as you could expect with any 
man. 

Evie. Well, you see the result ? Five of the best 
years of my life utterly wasted. Oh, why didn't you 
warn me ? 

Cutler. Against marrying a thoroughly decent 
healthy young fellow with six thousand a year ? 

Evie. And not one single idea in common with me. 
Don't you think it was a little selfish of you, not to 
take more care that I married the right man ! 

Cutler. My dear, if you remember, you were full 
of all sorts of whims and fancies. You wanted to be 
this ; you wanted to be that ; you wanted to be every- 
thing. I thought marriage would be just the thing 
to cure you. 

Evie. But it hasn't. Marriage has turned out an 
awful mistake. Well, I won't blame you, if you'll only 
help me to repair it before it's too late. Don't let me 
see the years going by, and find myself growing into a 



74 THE DIVINE GIFT act i 

disappointed old woman with all my talents 
wasted. 

Cutler. [Frankly.] The best thing that could 
happen to you would be to have a child. 

Evie, [Annoyed and shocked.] Please don't harp on 
that again. I've already told you so many times that 
I've decided 

Cutler. You have decided- ? 

Evie. Surely a woman has a right to decide that. 

Cutler. Certainly. But if she doesn't mean to 
have children, she oughtn't to marry. 

Evie. That's what I think* And, for the future, I 
want no husband but art. 

Cutler. [Walks up and down a few steps perplexed.] 
Look here, my dear Evie. You've always wanted to 
live in London with congenial society. Let me see 
Will, and persuade him to give up the Oakminster 
house, get you a pretty little flat in Mayfair, where 
you can surround yourself with artists and delightful 
people 

Evie. No. That would have satisfied me a year 
ago. It's too late now. I have chosen my path. If 
I fail, I fail. But I sha'n'c fail ! I've got it here ! 
[Strikes her breast.] 

Cutler. [Changing his tone to acquiescence.] Very 
well, my dear. Will's in town — when can he see 
me? 

Evie. He'll be busy all day arranging the divorce 
and other things. He said he could dine with you. 

Cutler. George Norton is dining with me to-night. 
I can't very well put him off, as he wants to see me 



act i THE DIVINE GIFT 75 

about something important. Could Will come here at 
half -past six ? 

Evie. Yes, I think. I'll send him to you. 
Cutler. Yery well. I shall expect him. 
Evie. [Very grateful.] Thank you, dear Guardy. 
Cutler, You aren't going out to Switzerland alone ? 
Evie. No. Stanislas Karlinski has advised me to 
go to Mary Lambert for voice production. So I shall 
take her as a companion, and she will train my voice. 
Stanislas himself is to be out there too. 

Cutler. Oh ! Well, let's hope the High Alps will 
clarify matters. 

Evie. Oh, it will ! I feel a load is lifted off me. 
For the first time in my life I can breathe. [Suddenly.] 
I'm lunching with Gracie Challoner at the Eitz. I 
must be going. No, don't bother to come to the door 
with me. [Glancing at watch on ivrist.] I must hurry ! 
Good-bye, dear old Guardy. You'll be sure to make 
my settlements right with Will ? 
Cutler, I'll do all I can, 

Evie. Thanks. [Kisses him.] [Exit. 

Cutler. [Calls off at the open door.] Seccombe ! 

[Looks at his hands, which are dirty from the 
earth in the flower-pot ; turns up his coat 
sleeves ; opens curtains in corner. A wash- 
basin is behind them ; he proceeds to wash 
his hands, leaving curtains apart. 
[Seccombe enters and seats himself at table. 
Sharpens his pencil. 
Cutler. [Washing his hands.] Tiresome hussies, 
women ! 



76 THE DIVINE GIFT act i 

Seccombe. They haven't bothered me much since 
I was twenty-five. 

Cutler. Ah, you were engaged once. 

Seccombe. Yes. I found out I'd let myself in for 
it. She threatened me with a breach of promise, so 
I paid down my three hundred pounds like a man 
and got out of it. 

Cutler. [Comes out, draws curtains together, turns 
down his coat sleeves.] Now, let's get on. 

Seccombe. I'm ready. 

Cutler. [Walking up and down, dictating.] " To 
sum up, this twin revolt of labour and woman is then 
a rebellion of more than one-half of civilised mankind 
against the fundamental laws and conditions of human 
existence. What is the remedy ? " 

Seccombe. [Writing.] " Remedy." 

Cutler. " Clearly to change those fundamental 
laws and conditions. Nature is the author of them. 
To her then we must address our appeal." 

Seccombe. " Appeal." 

Cutler. " All Beneficent Goddess, we beseech Thee 
to change the present order of the universe, which 
weighs so grievously on the feeble, the diseased, and 
the worthless. Especially do we entreat Thee to 
revoke Thy cruel command to them to beget their 
like, which mocks all our charity, defeats all our 
legislation, and encumbers us with ever-increasing 
misery and disorder. Cast a pitying eye on our 
distressed politicians, who, finding Thy present laws 
inhuman and unworkable, are laboriously engaged in 
voting against them, and will in any case continue to 



act i THE DIVINE GIFT 77 

shut their eyes to them. Dear Goddess, ordain some 
gentler dispensation for the governance of this planet. 
Hasten a millennium of blessedness and comfort for 
everybody who can't and won't work himself, and 
won't let anybody else." 

Seccombe. If this gets into the labour papers, they'll 
burn you in effigy. 

Cutler. Many excellent theologians have been 
burnt in the flesh for airing unintelligible dogmas. 
I mustn't mind being burnt in effigy for warning 
my working men friends off a mirage. Proceed. 

Seccombe. Keady. 

Cutler. [Dictating.] " It cannot be doubted that 
the Beneficent Goddess will hearken to our petition. 
She cannot have doomed the vast majority of mankind 
to constant and irksome toil. She cannot mean what 
she says. She'll think better of it. And the moment 
Nature changes her methods, our labour troubles will 
automatically disappear." 

Seccombe. [Writing.] " Disappear." 

Cutler, " For the widely spread rebellion amongst 
women, an equally sure and easy remedy seems to be 
at hand. The present inferior position of women is 
directly traceable to the disagreeable necessity which 
is at present laid upon them of becoming mothers. 
This necessity once removed, their status will be 
immediately raised to that of perfect equality with men. 
Here again we have simply to circumvent, or change 
a manifestly cruel and unjust decree of Nature." 

Seccombe. " Nature." 

Cutler. " Happily the recent triumphs of science 



78 THE DIVINE GIFT act t 

warrant us in hoping that a less clumsy and unmen- 
tionable means will soon be discovered of perpetuating 
the human race." 

Seccombe. " Perpetuating the human race." 

Cutler. " Already we may discern amongst civilized 
peoples some indications of the development of a neuter 
sex. If these indications are to be trusted, we are 
justified in looking forward to a period when the 
present disabilities and discontent of women will 
vanish in the establishment of a human sexual 
economy founded on the model of the beehive." 

Seccombe. •' Model of the beehive." 

Cutler. " The gain to human happiness, human 
sanity, human progress, the relief to our nerves, 
which will follow this desirable innovation cannot be 
estimated. For the first time in its history the human 
race will be able to devote itself to serious affairs. 
Once eliminate this wasteful pastime, this cheating 
folly that we call love from our daily lives, and 

we 

[Enter Sandford. 

Sandford. [Announces.'] Madame Lora Delmar. 

[Enter Lora Delmar. 

[Exit Sandford. 

[Lora Delmar is a rather tall, dark woman, 
about thirty -five, with striking rather than 
beautiful features. She has large sad eyes, 
afidl sinuous mouth, and a fine calm brow. 
Her face gives the impression that she has 
lived, and loved, and suffered. Her figure 



act i THE DIVINE GIFT 79 

is elegant and supple. She is beautifully 
but quietly and tastefully dressed. 

Lora. Good-morning, dear sage. [Shaking hands.'] 
You're busy ? 

Cutler. Never, when you can talk or sing to me. 

Lora. You said I might always come in. Good 
morning, Mr. Seccombe. 

Seccombe. [Has risen.] Good morning, Madame. 
[Goes to door.] Shall I wait ? 

Cutler. No, come in after lunch. [Exit Seccombe. 

Cutler. I'm delighted to see you. I thought you 
were away in the provinces. [Looks at her.] What has 
brought you to town ? 

Lora. Oh, I'm so unhappy, dear sage. My heart 
is just dead within me. No, it isn't. I wish it was. 

Cutler. Poor child of the storm ! What's the 
matter ? George ? 

Lora. [Just nods.] He's torturing me to death by 
inches. You don't mind my coming to you ? 

Cutler. [Very sympathetically^] No! No! Tell me 
all about it. 

Lora. Thanks. I wouldn't have troubled you, but 
I've no one else. I've kept it shut up here for weeks. 
I had to tell some one, or let it drive me mad. 

Cutler. Very well, tell me. So George is behaving 
badly again ? 

Lora. Yes ; I left London a month ago on my 
provincial tour. He promised to join me in two or 
three days. I knew he didn't mean to come, because 
— I've not been holding him for a long time now. He 
wrote, putting me off with excuses. I wrote to him 



80 THE DIVINE GIFT act i 

again and again. He didn't answer. I couldn't bear 
it any longer — I had inquiries made. He'd gone to 
Paris with — whom do you think ? Belle Chillington, 
the music-hall Paroquet. 

Cutler. Paroquet ? 

Lora. She dresses in red and yellow feathers like a 
parrot, and has a vulgar scene with a drunken sailor, 
all screaming and swearing. And George has gone to 
her. Can you imagine why I love such a man ? 

Cutler. No. Why do you ? 

Lora. I can't help myself. These last weeks — you 
don't know what it has been— forcing myself to feel 
and sing words that meant nothing — smiling and 
bowing to the audience — then going back to a country 
hotel — the nights I've spent, pacing up and down 
the room, with the senseless wall-papers grinning at 
me — tearing at them to get to him — making up my 
mind to go to Paris by the first train, — and then to 
end it with a dose of morphia. 

Cutler. You won't do that ? 

Lora. The night before last I did buy the stuff. I 
poured it out, but I happened to catch sight of his 
photograph. Oh, my God ! that a man should have 
it in his power to rack the woman who loves him as 
George Norton is racking me ! 

[She buries her face in her hands and sobs. He 
stands over her and tenderly pats her 
shoulder. She continues to sob. 

Cutler. Cry away ! Ease your heart ! 

[She gradually gets calmer, and at length ceases 
to sob and dries her 



act i THE DIVINE GIFT 81 

Lora. There! I'm better now I've told you! 
Thanks ! [Warmly grasps his hand. 

Cutler. That's right ! You've conquered yourself. 
And now ! You'll have lunch with me, and go back 
to your tour. Where are you singing to-night ? 

Lora. Nowhere. I've broken up my tour. 

Cutler. Broken up your tour ? 

Lora. Yes, and sent my people away. Last night 
at Chester all the places were taken — the audience 
was seated — I was dressed. I felt I couldn't go on — 
I simply couldn't, so it was announced I was ill. I 
went back to the hotel, and came up to London this 
morning. 

Cutler. [Looks at her and shakes his head at her very 
gravely and reproachfidly.] What are you going to do ? 

Lora. Take the first train to George. 

Cutler. No ! You mustn't do that ! 

Lora. Yes, I must. 

Cutler. You say he's in Paris ? 

Lora. He was there last week. I'm going to find 
out if he's there still, or where he is, and go to him. 

Cutler. No, no, no ! 

Lora. Yes, yes, yes ! 

Cutler. Haven't you had misery enough with him ? 

Lora. Misery ? [ With a little bitter laicgh.] If you 
knew half ! 

Cutler. Well, surely this ought to convince 
you 

Lora. Of what? 

Cutler. George Norton isn't worthy of you. He 
never has been worthy of you. 

F 



82 THE DIVINE GIFT act t 

Lora. Don't I know that ? Haven't I known it all 
through ? 

Cutler. You surely won't be mad enough to put 
yourself in his power again ? After this ? 

Lora. Yes, I shall. [He makes a gesture of helpless- 
ness.] Don't you think I know it's madness ? [Re looks 
at her pityingly] Yes, go on pitying me ! I pity 
myself ! I hate myself ! I despise myself ! I say to 
myself a hundred times a day that it can only bring 
me more misery. But I'm going to do it, because — 
because I'm a woman ! 

Cutler. No. Because you're a certain type of 
woman, and because you're cursed — or rather, blessed 
— with a certain type of nervous system. 

Lora. Cursed ! 

Cutler. Cursed and blessed. Cursed for yourself, 
blessed for the public. 

Lora. The public ! I hate them. I laugh at them ! 
These last weeks I've been singing wretchedly, care- 
lessly, without any spark of real feeling. But they 
applaud me just the same. They praise me just the 
same. They don't know ! They're geese ! They're 
sheep ! They're fools ! 

Cutler. They're very good-natured fools about art 
and music. They mean well. And their instinct is 
generally right in the long run. It's right in your 
case. And they adore you, they worship you. They 
wait for hours in the cold and rain. They fight for 
places to hear you. They shout themselves hoarse, 
and drag your carriage through the streets ! Surely 
you have a duty to them. 



act i THE DIVINE GIFT 83 

Lora. Duty? 

Cutler. Isn't it your first and highest duty in life 
to give them your very best, all that you have to give ! 
You've no right to waste this divine gift of yours on 
such a man as George Norton. 

Lora. I have a right to do what I like with my 
life. I have a right to give it to the man I love. 
And it isn't wasting my gift to love him. You know 
how splendidly I sang when I first knew him, how I 
burst on them night after night ! It all came from 
him. It was my love for George I was singing. 
Whenever I've sung my best, it has been when I have 
loved him most, and felt surest of him. 

Cutler. But that's past. That's gone. 

Lora. No ! No ! Don't say that. 

Cutler. But isn't it true ? To-day George Norton 
is merely cutting your throat, rifling your voice, 
wrecking your career. And you know it. Don't 
you ? 

Lora. I don't care. I must go to him. Don't you 
think I've struggled to tear him out of my heart ? I 
can't ! He has twisted himself all round it. He has 
burnt into me, eaten into me ! He is me ! And 

when I think he's over there with that — I [Makes 

an angry despairing movement.] I can't eat ! I can't 
sleep ! My life is dried up. I must go to him. 

Cutler. [Look8 at her for some moment**] I give it 
up. 

Lora. What? 

Cutler. Trying to understand. Here are you, 
squandering all the treasures of your rich full nature 



84 THE DIVINE GIFT act i 

on what ? George is good-looking, well-bred, witty, 
distinguished — I'm fond of him myself 

Lora. Well, then, can't you forgive me for loving 
him? 

Cutler. But now you know what he is — faithless, 
worthless 

Lora. I know he's worthless. I know he deceives 
me. What does that matter ? A mother knows her 
son to be worthless. But she doesn't cease to love 
him. 

Cutler. You would have made a good mother. 

Lora. Shouldn't I ? I often think that's worth all 
the rest. But I've thrown away the best things in 
life, and now — I've only George. Don't try to part 
us. I can't give him up. Ah, dear sage, don't try 
to be wise for me. Let me be foolish for myself? 
please. 

Cutler. [After a long pause.] Then you've quite 
made up your mind to let George Norton ruin your 
life? 

Lora. No. When I've won him back, I'm going to 
devote myself entirely to him. 

Cutler. What about your singing? 

Lora. I'm not going to sing any more. 

Cutler. Not going to sing any more ? You surely 
can't mean that? 

Lora. Indeed, I do. Oh, how tired I am of it all ! 
It's all acting; my own name doesn't seem real to 
me. Oh, how I hate it. 

Cutler. You say that now. You won't say it in 
six months' time. 



acti THE DIVINE GIFT 85 

Lora. Yes, I shall. My singing days are over. 

Cutler. No! No! This is only a passing mood. 
You'll come out of it, and be your old, eager self, 
panting for fresh triumphs and fresh fame. 

Lora. Fame ? What's a singer's fame ? 

Cutler. What's anybody's fame ? Even Shake- 
speare's, if one thinks of it ? A century or two of 
growing renown ; a babble of confused criticism ; a 
buzz of ignorant worship and applause ; a tramp 
of Americans to his birthplace ; a hash of his scenes, 
and a murder of his musical iambics by unversed 
actors ; then, ten or fifteen thousand years of fading 
mention; a withering memory; a mere name; an 
echo fainter, and yet fainter ; last of all, millions and 
millions of years of oblivion. Yery empty, all of it ! For 
all that, our pulses will jump when we hear those roars 
of applause you'll get at Covent Garden next season. 

Lora. [Shakes her head sadly,'] I sha'n't get them. 
I don't want them. 

Cutler. What are you going to do ? 

Lora. I'm going to win him back. 

Cutler. Suppose you don't succeed ? 

Lora. I must ! I shall ! I've won him back before. 
I shall do it again. 

Cutler. And then — if he deceives you again ? 

Lora. I shall keep him this time. I'm going to try 
a different plan. I've been very selfish. I've given so 
much of my time and myself to my singing. I 
haven't always put him first. Now I shall be free to 
give him everything. I shall find out some dear 
little place in the country 



86 THE DIVINE GIFT act i 

Cutler. A rose-bowered cottage on a village green? 
Will that suit George for long ? 

Lora. Oh, I can take him to London, or Paris, or the 
South. I can always keep him when we're alone. 
And he's fond of country life. 

Cutler. Won't you soon tire of it yourself, and 
long for your work and your triumphs ? 

Lora. I'm sick of my triumphs ! I loathe my 
work ! Oh, I shall be so glad to be rid of it all, and 
live a real life at last. How I envy some women ! 

Cutler. Such as ? 

Lora. Well, that silly little chattering friend of 
yours who dined here that night; 

Cutler. Evie Janway ? 

Lora. Yes. She lives in a dear old English town ; 
she has a good, kind husband, plenty of money 
and friends — no heartaches, no sleeplessness, no 
miserable jealousies. She has never had to fight for 
her daily bread as I have done — she hasn't to 
fight to keep the man she loves. Why should she 
have everything to make a woman happy, while I am 
tortured and torn to pieces as I am ? 

Cutler. Ah, that rosebowered cottage, on a village 
green, where happy peasants dance, and perpetual 
summer reigns ! Why don't we all live in it ? 
Even I never get any nearer to it than Highgate. 
Yet if ever a man deserved unalloyed happiness, 
I do. 

Lora. [Looks at him a little searchingly .] You've 
had your sorrows ? 

Cutler. [After a glance into his 2)ast.] I have lived. 



act i THE DIVINE GIFT 87 

But I've had no fever of life for twenty-five years. 
I found a panacea. 

Lora. A panacea ? 

Cutler. When I was thirty-five, I looked round 
and asked what was the best thing I could wish for 
myself in life. 

Lora. And what was that ? 

Cutler. To possess my own soul. I had a good 
constitution ; no overmastering passions, and a very 
comfortable fortune. I permitted myself no vice, and 
every luxury : the luxury of leisure ; the luxury of a 
serene mind ; the luxury of clear thinking ; the 
luxury of the apt word ; the luxury of the chiselled 
phrase j a little love, much friendship ; a little science, 
much literature ; a little art, much music ; the best 
editions ; fine glass, fine china, fine silver, fine linen, 
rare vintages. 

Lora. But we can't all have these luxuries. 

Cutler. Scarcely one of them will be attainable 
in a pure democracy. So I remain an aristocrat — 
the last of the Tories, the last of the aristocrats. 
There's only one luxury I haven't been able to allow 
myself — the luxury of living in the eighteenth 
century. Still here I am, passably content. 

Lora. [Looks at him for some 7noments.] I don't 
know that I envy you. No. One hour of love is 
worth it all. I think I pity you. What you have 
lost ! 

Cutler. What I have gained ! My panacea is of 
no use to you ? 

Lora. Not the least. 



88 THE DIVINE GIFT act i 

Cutler. I knew it wouldn't be. 

Lora. [After a moment.] I want you to come to 
Paris with me. 

Cutler. What for? 

Lora. To help me win him back. 

Cutler. Surely you are the only one who can do 
that. 

Lora. You can make it easier for me. He'll listen 
to you. 

Cutler, I've met a dozen men who would listen to 
advice on matters of love. I've never met one who 
would take it. And certainly George Norton won't. 

Lora. Yes — he likes you, he admires you. And 
his father made him promise he'd always look upon 
you as his best friend. 

Cutler. And so George does. And I promised his 
father I'd always keep an eye on George. And so I 
do. But there it ends. I have no influence upon him. 

Lora. Yes, you have, more than you think. Ah, 
dear sage, do help me ! You don't know how miser- 
able I am ! 

Cutler. You're determined to go to him ? 

Lora. Yes; I'm going from here to the inquiry 
office to get his address. 

CutleRb Well, you needn't go to Paris for him. 
George is dining with me here to-night. 

[Her face changes and lights up with 
joy and hope; her movements and words 
are bright, quick, excited, eager.] 

Lora. Dining with you to-night ? Has he left 
her? 



act i THE DIVINE GIFT 89 

Cutler. I don't know. 

Lora. I'll dine with you, too. Don't say you won't 
have me. You will, won't you ? What time ? 

Cutler. Eight o'clock. 

Lora. I'll be here. Then he's in London ? What's 
his address ? 

Cutler. He wrote from the Club, saying he wanted 
to see me, and inviting himself to dinner. 

Lora, I might see him this afternoon — no, perhaps 
that wouldn't be the wisest thing to do. 

Cutler. The wisest thing would be — to leave him 
alone. 

Lora. Ah, don't talk, don't talk ! 

Cutler. The next least foolish, to let me have him 
here to dinner alone. 

Lora. No, I'm coming. 

Cutler. Very well. It might be awkward for us 
to sit down to dinner, if he didn't expect you. George 
needs careful handling sometimes. 

Lora. Don't I know it ? 

Cutler. I'll send him a wire to get here about 
seven, and I'll see him first. 

Lora. Oh, that's kind of you. You'll do all you 
can for me ? 

Cutler. [With a sigh.] Yes, I'll try to arrange a 
new lease of unhappiness for you. 

Lora. No ! No ! Well, if I am unhappy — so be it. 
But this time I shall keep him. Tell him — you know 
what to tell him. 

Cutler. I'll pack as much persuasion as I can into 
half an hour. Then you come in about half-past 



90 THE DIVINE GIFT act i 

seven, and I'll leave you with him while I go to 
dress. 

Lora. Thanks! Thanks! 

Cutler. Now, what shall we give George for 
dinner ? 

Lora. Oh, I'll leave it all to you. 

Cutler. Well, I may not be able to mend your 
broken heart, but I can give you a good dinner. 

Lora. You're a friend indeed. I must run away. 
I've got to see about some things at the dressmakers. 
I must look my best to-night. Au 'voir. Thanks ! 
Thanks ! [Going towards door, offering her hand. 

Cutler. [Taking her hand, holds it, looks at her.] 
I'm doing you a great wrong 

Lora. No! No! 

Cutler. Yes, I'm doing you and English music the 
greatest wrong I can do you. 

Lora. No ! No ! 

Cutler. [Releasing her hand.] But we shall soon 
hear you sing again ? 

Lora. I don't know? Perhaps. Yes, give him 
back to me, and I can't help singing. Half-past 
seven, then ? 

Cutler. Half-past seven. [Re follows her off , and a 
moment later is heard to say, The door, Sandford. 
In another moment he returns, stands gravely thought- 
ful in the middle of the room, ivith his hands in his 
pockets; takes out a letter from his jacket, reads. "As 
you may guess, it will bo no easy or pleasant task to 
get clear of her. I am anxious to let her down as 
gently as possible. So I've run over from Paris to 



act i THE DIVINE GIFT 91 

get you to lend me a hand. I want you to break it 
to her that this time it is final." 

[Shakes his head, sighs deeply, with a little 
shrug, raises his hands from his side, drops 
them helplessly. 



CURTAIN. 



ACT II 

Scene. Tfte same. Time : Before dinner on the same 
day. The room is well lighted ; the fire is 
burning brightly ; the curtains are drawn over 
the windows, and all is cheerful and cosy. 

Will Janway enters, followed by Cutler. They are 
in morning dress. Will is a pleasant-looking, 
round-faced, well-built, ordinary young English- 
man, rather over thirty. 

Will. [Very excited and indignant.] And I'm 
hanged if I can stand it any longer ! 

Cutler. But, Will, you oughtn't to bring people 
home to dinner without letting her know. 

Will. Without letting her know ? 

Cutler. You brought these Pumphreys to dinner 
when she was entertaining her musical friends. 

Will. What ! I told her in the morning that 
I'd asked the Pumphreys to a chop and a bird. She 
said : " We can't have the Pumphreys because I'm 
going to invite Karlinski and Schneberger." I said, 
"We must have the Pumphreys, because I've 
got a big business deal on with Pumphrey." " You 
can't bring the Pumphreys here to-night." " I 
shall bring the Pumphreys here to-night." "You 
93 



94 THE DIVINE GIFT act ii 

will not bring the Pumphreys here to-night." " I 
shall bring the Pumphreys here to-night." And so 
on for an hour. 

Cutler. Time wasn't very valuable with you that 
morning ? 

Will. Oh yes, it was, by Jove ! I had an im- 
portant appointment at half-past nine. And she 
kept me there rowing till half-past ten. You know 
how women will hang on to any silly idea that gets 
into their heads. 

Cutler. They are tenacious of — what gets into their 
heads. How did you get out of the deadlock ? 

Will. We didn't get out of it. I said at last 
[tapping the table with his finger to emphasize each 
word] " I shall bring the Pumphreys here at a 
quarter past seven." I said : " No dress or nonsense 
— just a good, plain, old-fashioned, English family 
dinner." 

Cutler. These Pumphreys — they're not quite 
Evie's sort? 

Will. No, thank God. They don't belong to her 
crew. Mrs. Pumphrey is the dearest, kindest, motherly 
old soul. And Pumphrey is a thorough downright 
John Bull Englishman — as decent an old boy as ever 
breathed — puts me on to no end of good things in 
business. 

Cutler. The dinner was not quite a success, Evie 
tells me. 

Will. No, by Jove ! When we got there we found 
Evie with a jowly Russian fiddler on one side of her, 
and a plastered-up, yellow-haired old squaw ker on the 



act ii THE DIVINE GIFT 95 

other. They were half through some greasy French 
mess that looked like vaseline, with lumps of black 
leather in it. Evie had brought in a job cook from 
the French restaurant. She calls that giving a dinner- 
party. 

Cutler. The French cuisine has its caprices. 

Will. The Pumphreys and I sat down at our end 
of the table, and I ordered some cold meat pie. 

Cutler. And then the conversation became general ? 

Will. I did my best to make myself agreeable to 
the jowly fiddler, while she glared at the Pumphreys, 
and made fun of them in French to the yellow old 
squawker. So T explained to the Pumphreys what 
Evie was saying about them. That sent her off' 
in a furious huff to her concert, and Pumphrey and I 
had a comfortable evening over a bottle of port. 

Cutler. And after the concert ? More harmony ? 

Will. The moment Evie came in I saw she wanted 
to have a row. 

Cutler. You indulged her ? 

Will. I did ! After a quiet little skirmish, she 
went at me hammer and tongs, ragged all my friends 
and relations, snorted about the room, flung her arms 
about, knocked a glass of whisky over her new evening 
dress, and screamed herself off into hysterics. I 
slipped quietly off to bed. 

Cutler. The night brought wisdom ? 

Will. Yes, we got up and talked it over quietly, 
and made up our minds to part. 

Cutler. Divorce? 

Will. Divorce, as soon as we can put it through. 



96 THE DIVINE GIFT act ii 

Cutler. Won't you find that rather an [sniffs] un- 
savoury job ? 

Will. Oh, it's a dirty nuisance. But, of course, 
you've got to keep the woman out of it. So what am 
I to do ? 

Cutler. Can't you give Evie a little flat in town, 
let her have her own friends, come up occasionally to 
see her, and so rub along for a year or two ? 

Will. No, I'm not going to be a married bachelor. 
You know what that means. No ! I've had five 
years of it ; and now I'm going to clear out for good, 
and make a fresh start. 

Cutler. You'll marry again ? 
Will. Not I, by Jove. It's too much of a 
risk. 

Cutler. What then ? You're a healthy, vigorous 

man of How old are you ? 

Will. Thirty-two. 

Cutler. You don't propose to live a life of total 
abstinence ? 

Will. Well, not exactly total 

Cutler. What quantity, and quality, and variety 
of feminine companionship do you propose to allow 
yourself ? Don't tell me. I don't wish to know. 
But ask yourself. 

Will, I mean to go as straight as I can. 
Cutler. How straight will that be ? 
Will. Well, as straight as a decent, healthy, not 
bad-looking chap can be expected to go. I don't 
pretend to be a saint. 

Cutler. No. And saints often allow themselves 



act ii THE DIVINE GIFT 97 

considerable latitude in this matter, so as to qualify 
themselves for admonishing sinners more severely. 
Putting saints aside, as untrustworthy guides for 
conduct, how straight do you mean to go? Don't 
tell me. You know your own past history. 

"Will. [After a little reflection, bursts out.] It's 
nothing but one eternal, confounded, silly mess-up 
from the time you're eighteen! If you go fooling 
about generally, you very likely get yourself disabled 
for life ; and suppose you don't, it knocks you to bits, 
and you're ashamed to look a decent woman in the 
face. If you take on some chorus girl, she sells you 
all round, draws all your cash, and then throws you 
over. If you pick up some little milliner or office 
girl, you get her into trouble, and she hangs round 
you so that you can't shake her off. And if you 
make up your mind to cut it altogether, you don't 
have a moment's peace till you cave in ; and then you 
feel you've made a thundering ass of yourself both 
ways. So what are you to do ? 

Cutler. The best solution seems to be a strictly 
temperate life in youth, with constant hard occu- 
pation till you're married. 

Will. Married? And then you get landed that 
way ! And nine times, out of ten you turn out all 
the worse husband for not having had your fling 
before. How many husbands are there that go 
perfectly straight ? 

Cutler. There are no statistics. 

Will. And how many of them have had their 
fling before ? 

Q 



98 THE DIVINE GIFT act ii 

Cutler. The Government is too busy to order a 
Parliamentary return. 

Will. It's a beastly puzzling riddle. 
Cutler. It is a riddle. But every man has got to 
find an answer. 

Will. I give it up. 

Cutler. Then you drift about all your life in help- 
less confusion. Every man has got to rule and placate 
his woman through ruling himself — or perish. Every 
nation has got to rule and placate its women through 
ruling itself — or perish. 

Will. Well, I've tried it all round, and I've come 
to the conclusion, " You can neither live with them, 
nor without them." 

Cutler. That is the exact dilemma. Upon which 
horn of it do you propose to impale yourself ? 

Will. Which horn did you impale yourself on when 
you were young ? 

Cutler. The wrong one — necessarily. Like the 
saints, I have qualified myself by sinning to be an 
example to evil-doers. 

Will. You never got married ? 
Cutler. No. I looked round the human Zoo, but 
I couldn't see any animal that I desired for a lifelong 
mate. The gazelle had beauty and grace, but little 
sense. The tigress had beauty and allurement, but she 
would have devoured me. The parrots were smartly 
dressed, but they chattered too much. The camel 
would have borne my burdens, but she had a detestable 
profile. The monkeys had many of my tastes and 
habits, but their talk was scarcely above the level of a 



act ii THE DIVINE GIFT 99 

modern society comedy. I watched a little squirrel — 
it was dainty and cheerful and tame, but it fidgeted 
incessantly. Not one of them had any taste for litera- 
ture. I hesitated before a lovely bird of paradise, and 
flirted with her till I found she was utterly stupid. A 
beautiful soft- eyed Scotch collie came up to me and 
nosed my hand, but she was sorrowing for her dead 
master, and had no love to give me. Then I inquired 
my way to the Phoenix cage ; but when I got there 
I found it empty, So I never married. 
Will. Then what did you do ? 
Cutler. I had weeks and months of hard study, 
self-discipline and self-denial, with occasional filthy 
revels amongst the flesh pots. But I never lost hold of 
myself, and I never fell under the dominion of any 
woman for longer than half an hour. 
Will. What luck ! 

Cutler. No, merely normal masculine competency. 
That went on till I was well past thirty. My early 
manhood was passing; the fleshpots were growing 
more pleasant, and my descents amongst them more 
frequent. One morning I woke and looked in the 
glass ; my face was a little bloated ; my eyes were 
reddish, and watery, and shifty ; my tongue was 
furred, and my hand shook. I couldn't read " Paradise 
Lost " with any pleasure. I had what religious people 
call a sudden conversion. I saved my soul on the spot. 
Will. You don't mean you pulled up altogether? 
Cutler. From that moment. Sophocles didn't 
escape from the savage master till he was seventy. I 
shook him off at thirty-five. 



100 THE DIVINE GIFT act ii 

Will. Didn't you find it a pretty hard job ? 

Cutler. Not in the least. Virtue is a mere habit. 
"We never know how easy it is till we practise it. 

Will. And women haven't bothered you since ? 

Cutler. Very rarely and distantly. When once I 
found myself secure on the bank, I stayed there. 
And now sometimes I look down into the slimy whirl- 
pool, and see the blind eels twisting and wriggling and 
curling round each other, feeding on the rank 
weeds — I turn away and look heavenwards. 

Will. Yes. I'll look heavenwards when I'm 
sixty. 

Cutler. And meantime ? 

Will. Oh, I intend to go as straight as I can— I 
suppose I shall go and make a damned fool of myself. 

Cutler. Is that inevitable ? 

Will. Well, what am I to do ? 

Cutler. [Looks at him.] It's strange. 

Will. What is ? 

Cutler. So many of us wouldn't live for a day in a 
dirty disordered room ; yet we live all our lives in 
dirty disordered minds. 

Will. [With strong conviction.] You know I should 
have made a jolly good husband, if I'd only married 
the right sort of wife. 

Cutler. Such as ? Amongst your own ac- 
quaintance whom would you choose ? 

Will. Well, the right sort. A woman who'd fall 
in with my ways, and try to understand me. Evie 
has never understood me. 

Cutler. Have you ever understood her ? 



act ii THE DIVINE GIFT 101 

Will. No, I'm hanged if I have ! 

Cutler. It is questionable whether skill in charac- 
ter reading tends to promote married happiness. 
Rather the reverse, I should say. Now this unknown 
fair, with whom and for whom you propose to make 
a damned fool of yourself ? 

Will. I don't -propose to make a damned fool of 
myself. 

Cutler. No, but you will. Do you think you are 
likely to be any happier with her than you are with 
Evie? Won't you be robbed, tricked, deceived, per- 
haps dragged into some disgraceful scandal ? You 
have your own set of friends. You can't introduce 
her to them. Your whole business and social life 
will be disarranged and confused. Aren't you almost 
sure to be less happy than you are now ? Hadn't 
you better humour your present situation with Evie ? 

Will. No, I've humoured the situation, and I've 
humoured Evie, and they both get worse. No ! Evie 
and I have got to part. We don't agree about any- 
thing else, but we do agree about that. And I want 
to talk with you about the settlements 

[ Enter Sandford. 

Sandford. Mr. Norton is here, sir. 

Cutler. Just a minute, Sandford. 

[Exit Sandford. 

Cutler. George has come to dinner, and he wants 
a little talk first. The settlements will take some 
time — won't they ? 

Will. No. Why should they ? If Evie takes out 



102 THE DIVINE GIFT act ii 

of the concern what she brought into it that ought to 
satisfy her? 

Cutler. I don't suppose it will. 
Will. If it does, it will be the only thing in life 
that ever did. 

Cutler. You wish to treat her generously, I'm sure. 

Will. I expect I shall have to. [Groans.] It cost 

me a heap of money to marry her ; it has cost me a 

heap to keep her ; and now it's going to cost me a 

heap to get rid of her. 

Cutler. Life is full of costly experiments. Where 
are you staying ? 

Will. At the Lancaster. 
Cutler. Evie is with you ? 

Will. Oh yes. We're dining together and going 
to the theatre. We're on better terms than we've 
been for months past. 

Cutler. I'll come to you at ten to-morrow. We'll 
see what Evie wants, and then go to Harland's office, 
and get him to make out a draft agreement. 
Will. Right. Then we can get to business. 

[Cutler goes to the door and opens it. 
Cutler. [Speaking off.] Ah, George, come in ! 

[George Norton enters in evening dress. He 
is a dark, handsome, distinguished, well- 
bred man about thirty-Jive, with quiet, easy, 
careless manners. 
Norton. How are you ? [Shaking hands with 
Cutler.] How d'ye do, Janway ? [Nodding to Will.] 
Will. How d'ye do? 
Norton. Mrs. Janway quite well 1 



act ii THE DIVINE GIFT 103 

Will. First-rate, thanks. 

Norton, Remember me to her, will you ? 

Will. I will, [To Cutler.] Ten o'clock to-morrow, 
then. 

Cutler. I'll be there, [Opens door, calls off.] The 
door, Sand ford. 

Will. Good evening, Norton. 

Norton. Good evening. 

Will. [To Cutler.] Good-bye. 

Cutler. [Shaking hands.] Good-bye. 

[Exit Will. Cutler closes the door after him. 

Norton. I'm here to time. You got my letter 
about Lora ? 

Cutler. Yes, I'm sorry, deeply sorry. 

Norton. Yes, it's a pity, poor girl. But that's how 
it is. Natural course of events in all these affairs. 
Hot love, passionate devotion, eternal fidelity ; gradual 
cooling off on the part of one or both ; bother to keep 
it up ; infernal boredom ; tugging at the chains ; and 
then common sense comes in and says, " What's the 
use ? You know you're damned sick of it all. Why 
not own up and get out of it ? " 

Cutler. So you're going to get out of it ? 

Norton. I am. 

Cutler. Do you realise what you are throwing up ? 
The entire love and devotion of a beautiful, accom- 
plished woman — a woman without the freaks and 
pettiness and childish vanities of her sex — a large 
generous creature — a woman who has London at her 
feet, and could choose her lovers by the dozen — a great 



104 THE DIVINE GIFT act ii 

artist, with_her divine gift — something altogether 
beyond and away from the ordinary woman 

Norton. Oh, come down to bedrock, and a woman's 
a woman. 

Cutler. Ah, then you don't realize. 

Norton. Yes, I do. Lora is a prize for any man ; 
and I've been very lucky to find a woman who has 
helped me to spend four years very pleasantly. But 
the four years have gone ; and now I have the 
wretched bad taste not to wish for another four 
years, or four weeks, or four days, 

Cutler. You're right. You have wretched bad taste. 

Norton. I know it ! I know it ! 

Cutler. And you're making a great mistake. 

Norton. I feel sure I am. Who doesn't with 
women ? 

Cutler. She has given you the four best years of 
her life. You have taken from her the power to love 
another man deeply. Aren't you bound to stand by 
her, and give her some show of constancy and affec- 
tion ? Don't you owe her that at least ? 

Norton, I do ! And a good deal more ! And I 
can't pay ! That's the deuce of it. That's why I've 
come to you to help me wind up the affair. 

Cutler. Hadn't you better see her yourself ? 

Norton. What's the use ? 

Cutler. You must come to some understanding, 
and perhaps — who knows ? When you see her and 
talk to her — " On revient toujours a ses anciennes 
amours." 

Norton. No, not toujours. Sometimes — after a 



act 11 THE DIVINE GIFT 105 

long ramble away from them. But in this instance — 
[shaking his head] — the proverb won't fit. 

Cutler. At any rate, see her. You can't sneak 
away from her, without offering her some explanation 
of your conduct. 

Norton. Oh, as to my conduct, it's damned bad, 
and there's no explanation of it. But I don't want 
to sneak away. I'm thinking how I can let her down 
gently. If I were to see her, I should only have a 
bad half-hour ; she'd have a worse. I should merely 
feel uncomfortable, and own I'm a skunk. But she'd 
fret her heart to pieces, open up all the old wounds, 
and — poor girl ! 

Cutler. Still, you'd better meet her. 

Norton. No, I want to spare her. I have prepared 
her a little. I dare say she guesses, and if you were to 
see her and soften it as far as you can Black- 
guard me as much as you like ; I deserve it. 

Cutler. You do. 

Norton. She'll be far better off without me 

Cutler. She will, undoubtedly. 

Norton. Well, that's the line to take. You 
know how to put it. Get her to see it in that 
light. 

Cutler. If she only could ! 

Norton. Well, then, you'll see her ? 

Cutler. No ; I'll arrange for her to meet you 

Norton. Good Lord, no ! What can be the use, 
except to give her pain ? 

[Cutler shakes his head, makes a grimace of 
vexation, walks about the room, takes out 



106 THE DIVINE GIFT act ii 

his watch, looks at it, puts it bach, looks at 
Norton, who is smoking a cigarette. 

Cutler. There's another woman ? 

Norton. Well, naturally. 

Cutler. What sort of a woman? Don't tell me. 
I've no wish to dip my fingers in that bowl. But ask 
yourself. You're giving up Lora Delmar — for what ? 
What's the bargain you've got in exchange ? 

Norton. I haven't totted it up. I sha'n't call for 
the bill till I've finished the dinner. Then I dare say 
I shall find I've been swindled. 

Cutler, Not a very recherche meal you're sitting 
down to, eh ? 

Norton. One gets tired of the best cooking. I fed 
at Garnier's once for a month on end. It drove me 
to a little rowdy Palais Royal restaurant. 

Cutler. With rechauffe dishes and a dirty table- 
cloth? You liked that ? 

Norton. It was a change. 

Cutler. Change ? The food was exactly the same, 
only coarser, staler, greasier, dirtier. Change ? Lust 
is always the same. Intrigue is always the same. It's 
only a deep enduring love that is always fresh, always 
varied, always new. 

Norton, Don't fancy I'm cut out for it. 

Cutler. What are you cut out for? This new 
treasure trove ? 

Norton. What about her ? 

Cutler. Some jewel of God's fine workmanship? 
Something very rare, beautiful, accomplished, refined, 
sympathetic, eh ? 



act ii THE DIVINE GIFT 107 

Norton. I can't say she is. 

Cutler. Take care, George. A man stamps his own 
character by the character of the woman he constantly 
pairs with. 

Norton. Mine's pretty battered. I don't think it 
can come to much further harm. But if it does, 
that's my look out. 

Cutler. What is your look out ? When you tire of 
this compagne de voyage^ who's to be the next ? And 
the next ? And the next ? What are your plans for 
middle age ? 

Norton. I haven't got any. 

Cutler. What's your old age going to be ? 

Norton. Heaven knows. Rather doddering, I 
should say. You're asking me a lot of awkward 
questions. 

Cutler. [Very kindly.'] Won't you ask them your- 
self ? Won't you look ahead ? 

Norton. I'd rather not, if you don't mind. I 
dare say things will straighten out all right. 

Cutler. Won't you straighten them out yourself ? 
First of all, there's your wife 

Norton. Oh, that has straightened out of itself. 
Of all my comjmgnes de voyage my wife has given me 
the least trouble — since we separated. You know 
how we came to get married. I never took that 
seriously. 

Cutler. You did take Lora Delmar seriously ? 

Norton. I suppose I did. That's the mistake of 
taking these affairs seriously. You only jib the more 
when you find they aren't. 



108 THE DIVINE GIFT act ii 

Cutler. Lora took it very seriously ? She's taking 
it very seriously still ? 

Norton. Yes, poor girl. Women do take these 
things more seriously than men. It's a pity. Makes 
one feel such a beast when one has got to break 
it off. 

Cutler. George, think again ! She has stuck to 
you all these years. You know what it means to her. 
But do you know what it means to yourself ? She's 
the only woman who can bring you home to your 
best self, and make you of some little use in the 
world. You won't be so base, so foolish, as to throw 
her over ? 

Norton. Looks very much like it, I'm afraid. 

Cutler. No ! No ! This other affair is only a 
passing fancy ? It isn't going to last ? 

Norton. I'm leaving for Italy and Egypt in 
the morniDg, so I suppose it will last through the 
winter. 

Cutler. Some months, then ? 

Norton. For all I know it may last for some years. 
I'm sure I hope it may. It will save me a lot of 
trouble if it does. 

Cutler, And when it's over ? Don't you think 
you'll find out the worth of Lora Del mar and come 
back to her ? 

Norton. I might. Really, I can't say. I don't feel 
like it at present. In any case, I leave Charing Cross 
at nine to-morrow morning. 

Cutler. Cancel it. George. You aren't so tied up 
that you couldn't get out of it? 



act ii THE DIVINE GIFT 109 

Norton. The tickets are taken. I'm booked till 
March. The only thing is to wish me Bon voyage — 
unless you've got any more awkward questions ? 

Cutler. Yes, just one. What attraction can a man 
with your bringing up, tastes, education, associations 
— the best that England could give a man — 
what attraction can you find in daily intimacy with 
such a woman? Don't you feel degraded, imbruted 
by it? 

Norton. I say, my dear old friend, with all your 
experience of men and women, you aren't going to 
take off your coat, and try to mop up the sexual mess, 
are you ? 

Cutler. No. [Re looks at Norton for a long time 
and then goes up to him and speaks very kindly 
and gravely.] George, you're making a fearful havoc 
of your life. 

Norton. Ain't I ? 

Cutler. Aren't you ashamed of yourself ? 

Norton. If I'm not, I ought to be. 

Cutler. When you left Oxford and went into Parlia- 
ment, we all had the highest hopes of you. You dropped 
into your uncle's seat ; you had all the best training 
and traditions ; you made your mark at once ; if 
you'd kept at it, you'd have been one of the leaders 
of the party to-day. 

Norton. Getting myself horsewhipped by suffra- 
gettes ; spouting party twaddle all over the country ; 
and marching in and out of the lobbies half the 
night. 



110 THE DIVINE GIFT act ii 

Cutler. But you were born into the governing 
classes. That was your heritage — to govern. That 
was your post, You ran away from it. You're a 
deserter. 

Norton. I stuck to it for seven years, during 
which my enlightened constituents entirely dis- 
franchised themselves by giving me Bill Bowler, the 
labour king, for a colleague. Just before the 
nineteen-six election, as I was leaving the House, I 
came across Bill in the middle of a group of labour 
royalties. He casually referred to me as a blanky 
aristocratic loafer. 

Cutler. Wasn't he about right ? 
Norton. Perfectly. An admirable description of 
me. I couldn't have bettered it myself. Except that 
I was not blanky — not in any literal sense. When 
the election came, I saw the country was in for a 
blanky period of blanky legislation by blanky persons 
and blanky methods. So I scuttled, and left the 
science of government to Bill Bowler. 
Cutler. You scuttled ? 

Norton. I did. And seeing the blanky muddle the 
blanky country has got itself into, don't you think 
I was very well out of it? 

Cutler. No. It isn't the time for scuttling. The 
Goths are upon us. They're going to sweep away 
aristocratic loafers. Have no doubt about that. 
They'll sweep you away. And they'll be right. But 
the mischief is, they won't care what else they sweep 
away. In the scrimmage, they may sweep away 
what's left of art and literature and architecture 



act ii THE DIVINE GIFT 111 

in our common national life ; everything that has any- 
enduring value or beauty ; everything that we mean 
when we say " England " ; everything that has made 
our country something different from a shrieking 
railway yard, surrounded by factories, and miles of 
squalid brick hutches for human rabbits ; everything 
that made this land a soil to grow great men, great 
poets, great warriors, great seamen, great statesmen ; 
great thinkers. What do they care what they sweep 
away ? But they're going to sweep you away, George 
— that's certain. The danger is they may sweep me 
away too. 

Norton. I should be sorry for that. But with all 
respect for you, aren't you something of an elegant 
superfluity ? 

Cutler. No. I am the most necessary member of 
the social organism. I am a man of leisure, 

Norton. Well, that's very pleasant for you. But I 
don't see your particular use. 

Cutler. I have tried to think for mankind. To 
do that, I must have ample leisure, freedom from 
personal cares, and easy circumstances. Then I can 
fulfil my function. 

Norton. Well, old friend, they don't seem to have 
very much need of you. 

Cutler. You think not ? Look at the mad hungry 
mobs of the earth, clamouring for perpetual beer and 
skittles. Look at the noisy gangs of politicians, voting 
the mobs their beer and skittles, or anything else 
they shout loud enough for. Darwin has lived in 
vain for politicians. They have never even heard of 



112 THE DIVINE GIFT act ii 

him. How can these brass heads think for the 
people ? How can the people think for themselves, 
among all the damnable clatter of their party- 
machines? Don't they need somebody to think for 
them ? Yes, they need me. But they don't want 
me. Very well. I'll step aside, and make way for 
my colleague. 

Norton. Who's that? 

Cutler. The man with a sword. 

Norton. Yes, I suppose Kitchener will have to 
look in before it's over. 

Cutler. Meantime, you're going to loaf in 
Egypt? 

Norton. Oh, I shall push into the interior and get 
some sport . 

Cutler. Sport ? Won't you pull yourself together, 
George? Isn't it worth making an effort? If you 
must have a woman's companionship, what in the 
wide world could you wish for more than you've 
already got, and are throwing away? Won't you 
pick up your career with her, go into Parliament 
again ; or, if the time for talking is nearly over, get 
ready for action. There will be plenty to do in 
England before long. Your grandfather lies at 
Lucknow — is the old spirit all gone ? 

Norton. I say, you're making me feel plaguy 
uncomfortable. I know I'm in a bad way, and I 
know the country is in a bad way, but — can ; t you 
cut the preaching ? 

Cutler. I've finished. 

Norton. That's right. What about dinner? You 



act ii THE DIVINE GIFT 113 

wired me to get here at seven, and so I did ; but it 
isn't going to be all sermon pie, is it ? 

Cutler. No. I've got a little dinner that you'll 
like. 

Norton. Good. What time ? 

Cutler. Eight or thereabouts. I'm expecting 
another guest. [Looking at watch.] 

Norton. Who's that ? 

Cutler. She'll be here in a few minutes. 

Norton. She? [Looks at him.] NotLora? [Cutler 
doesn't reply.] I say, this is too bad ! You oughtn't 
to have cornered me like this. I'll be off before she 
comes. 

Cutler. No, George. She's coming on purpose to 
meet you. 

Norton. It's too bad. And it's so rough on her. 
No ! I'll get away. You'll smooth it down for her, 
won't you ? 

Cutler. [Stopping him.] No. [Listens.] There's a 
motor just driven up. She's here. You must see 
her. 

[Norton makes a gesture of intense annoyance, 

Norton. But what's the use ? I shall pretend to 
make it up with her, let her think it's all right, and 
then write her to-morrow. 

Cutler. No. You mustn't do that. 

Norton. We shall have a beastly uncomfortable 
evening if I don't. Yes, that's what I shall do. 

Cutler. No, George. That will be cruel, cowardly. 

Norton. Have you seen her ? 

Cutler. Yes, this morning. 

H 



114 THE DIVINE GIFT act n 

Norton. Is she very much cut up ? 

Cutler. Her heart's breaking. I don't envy the 
feelings of the man who will have to remember all his 
life that he has broken a heart like hers. 

Norton. Well, then, why do you let me in for it 
to-night ? 

Cutler. Why do you let yourself in ? You needn't. 
Spare yourself ; and spare her. It isn't too late. 

Norton. Infernally awkward it's going to be for 
all of us. 

[Enter Sandford. 

Sandford. [Announces.] Madame Lora Delmar. 

[Enter Lora in a soft, beautiful, quiet- toned 
evening chess. She is pale, excited, hopeful, 
anxious. 

Lora. Good evening, dear sage. 
Cutler. Good evening, 
Lora. [To Norton.] And you- 



Norton. [Goes to her, hisses her hand gracefully. His 
manner towards her is very charming and considerate 
throughout.'] Ah, this is delightful. 

Lora. [Looking at him anxiously.] You're pleased 
to see me ? Of course you'll say you are 

Norton. And mean it, most devoutly. I'd made 
up my mind for a dull evening. This old wisdom- 
box has been grinding out good advice to me for the 
last half-hour, haven't you ? 

Cutler. I do preach, terribly. Coleridge left a 
few shreds of his mantle hereabouts, and they've 
clung to my shoulders. [Taking out watch.] I'll go 



act ii THE DIVINE GIFT 115 

and dress. [To Loea.] Oh, by the way, a young 
Cornish composer, by the name of Treganza, has been 
bothering me for a letter of introduction to you. 
He's composing an opera on Fair Rosamond. 

Lora. Poor creature. There are so many of 
them. 

Cutler. I gave him the letter. But you needn't 
see him. You can manage to entertain yourselves 
till I come down ? 

Norton. Pray don't hurry. You couldn't leave me 
in pleasanter company. 

Lora. [To Cutler.] Now, does he mean that ? 

Cutler. [Looks gravely at Norton.] I think he 
does. I feel sure he does. [Goes to door, turns, looks 
at them.] I was going to preach again. I won't. But 
— [speaks with considerable feeling] — if this short life 
holds anything at all that is sacred, surely you two 
are bound to each other. Surely the ties of your 
attachment should bind you all the closer, because 
they are silken and not iron. If there is any shadow 
of an excuse for a love such as yours, it is because it 
willingly accepts deeper obligations, more lasting 
responsibilities than marriage itself. The summer is 
passing for both of you — the heyday is cooling ; won't 
you provide for the coming autumn? Won't you 
treasure up what little happiness is left for you ? Get 
to understand each other. Find out that you are 
necessary to each other — and then we'll have dinner. 

[Exit, 

Lora. Tell me I've done right in coming. 

Norton. To give me three hours of your company 



116 THE DIVINE GIFT act n 

and spare me three hours of dear old Cutler's philo- 
sophy ? 

Lora. [Very anxiously.] You are really pleased to 
see me ? 

Norton. Ah, you may sometimes doubt me, but 
you should never doubt yourself. [Again kisses her 
hand.] Why do you ask ? 

Lora. I've been in such a flutter all the afternoon. 
I thought perhaps you would be annoyed — and think 
I was forcing myself upon you. 

Norton. What happier destiny could any man have 
than that you should force yourself upon him ? Especi- 
ally in such a charming dress. 

Lora. It's not a new one. You've seen it before. 
Don't you remember ? 

Norton. No, I can't recall it. But since you were 
doubtless present, you will forgive me if I was so much 
occupied in admiring you, that I had no attention to 
give to your dress. 

Lora. And to-night you have so little attention to 
give to me that you can admire my dress. 

Norton. Ah, no. To-night I have so much 
admiration for you, that it flows over upon every- 
thing that is lucky enough to be near you, or upon 
you. 

Lora. Don't you think you are very unkind to 
make me pretty speeches just now ? 

Norton. Aren't you a little unreasonable to present 
me with such a tempting subject for pretty speeches 
and then blame me for making them ? 

Lora, Don't, George; please don't. You must know 



act ii THE DIVINE GIFT 1 1 7 

that you can't deceive me by all this. [Looks at him 
very reproachfully.] You're very cruel to me. 

Norton. My dear Lora, I am ashamed to own that 
I could be guilty of deoeiving you ; but I could never 
be guilty of being cruel to you. [Looking at the dress.] 
Anyhow, you can't deny that the dress is exquisitely 
made, and even more exquisitely worn. 

Lora. I put it on because I thought it might remind 
you of the last time you saw it. 

Norton. When was that ? 

Lora. Think. 

Norton. Tenby ? [She shakes her head.] Lyndhurst ? 
[Shakes her head.] Cheltenham ? [She shakes her head, 
and buries her face in her hands.] 

Lora. How can you bear to speak of them so 
lightly ? 

Norton. Because I have the pleasantest recollec- 
tions of them all. To look back on them makes 
England seem like a delightful stretch of meadow and 
woodland, dotted all over with lovers' trysting-places. 

Lora. Some day I shall go back to them all, and 
put up a gravestone to the happy hours that have 
gone. 

Norton. I hope not. When you visit any of them 
again, I hope it will be to spend still happier hours, 
with a more deserving companion. 

Lora. [With a flash of indignation.] You can say 
that ? You can think it ? I'd rather you had struck 
me. You have struck me. Please take it back. 

Norton. I beg your pardon. But you must own 
I haven't always been a very desirable companion. 



118 THE DIVINE GIFT act n 

At Cheltenham, for instance, I scarcely spoke to you 
at dinner. 

!■ Lora. It was my fault. I lost my temper, I'm so 
sorry, George. Forgive me. 

Norton. No, forgive me. I was a brute. 

Lora, You are never that. 

Norton. I was that evening. 

Lora. No, you were hungry and tired, and I had 
kept you waiting. 

Norton. But when you appeared, you were certainly 
worth waiting for. And how well you sang that 
evening. 

Lora. That was because we had made it up. 

Norton. And how well you looked. 

Lora. Did I ? "What was I wearing? 

Norton. Not that charming — confection. 

[Looking at her dress. 

Lora. No. I got this new for — where ? 

Norton. "Where ? 

Lora. Guess. 

Norton. Don't tease my memory any more. Tell me. 

Lora. Weymouth. 

Norton. Ah, Weymouth. 

Lora. Don't you remember ? We went out on the 
water after dinner, and I wore it in the boat with my 
swansdown over. Don't you remember? The big 
moon rising over the bay — and the band in the 
distance playing " Tannhauser " so abominably and so 
splendidly — and the surly old Dorsetshire boatman — 
and the oars in the rowlocks — and the dancing lamps 
on the ripples showing us our way home — and how I 



act ii THE DIVINE GIFT 119 

slipped on the web steps — and how you caught me 
tight in your arms, and I lent myself to you — I feel 
the thrill of it now [Leaning towards him.] George, 
it isn't all over ? 

Norton. [Genuinely touched for a moment.] I have 
treated you badly, Lora. 

Lora. That doesn't matter. We can make a 
fresh start. We have all the future, haven't 
we? 

Norton. What a cur I've been to you ! 

Lora. Forget it, as I've done. [Clasping him.] 

Norton. I wish I could. [Withdrawing from her 
embrace.] But the fact remains, I've been a selfish, 
careless beast. And the worse fact remains, that I'm 
afraid I sha'n't be any better in the future. You'd 
far better see that at once, and send me oft' as I 
deserve. 

Lora. But I can't ! I can't ! How can you ask it, 
after all that we have been to each other ? Every drop 
of blood in me is married to a drop of yours. Think 
of all the dear moments, all the dear memories! 
They're part of me, like my arms and my feet. Aren't 
they part of you ? 

Norton. You make me feel like a dirty scoundrel 
who has cheated at cards, or kicked a woman. 

Lora. Well, aren't you that, if you throw me 
over? 

Norton. Yes, I am. But upon my word, I'm not 
worth making all this fuss about. Come, Lora, be 
sensible. 

Lora. [Impatiently.] Oh, be sensible ! Be sensible ! 



120 THE DIVINE GIFT act n 

Norton. I wish there was some way in which I 
could make the amende. If you were in need of 
money, and I could help you ; if you wanted friends 
or introductions. Isn't there anything I can do ? 

Lora. Yes, one thing. 

Norton. What's that ? 

Lora. Don't kick me from you. 

Norton. Well, I won't. But tell me, can't I help 
in your profession ? 

Lora. I've given it up. 

Norton. Surely not! Given up your singing? 
What will you do when 

Lora. When you've kicked me away from you ? 
Die slowly, from my heart outwards. 

Norton. But I can't be saddled with this double 
crime. You mustn't give up your singing. I've 
always felt so proud of your voice. And I should 
like to feel proud of it still. 

Lora. Do you mean that? 

Norton. Indeed I do. 

Lora. [Becomes more animated.} I'll sing to you 
now. [Going to door, opening it.} What will you 
have ? Do you remember the little song I sang to 
the urchins that day at the foot of the Saint 
Gothard? 

Norton. Ah, the Saint Gothard. 

Lora. We got very near heaven that day, George ? 

Norton. Six thousand feet towards it. 

Lora. I'll sing you that, shall I ? 

[She goes off quickly at the open door. He 
moves a step or two reluctantly towards the 



act ii THE DIVINE GIFT 121 

door, stops, shows great perplexity. She 
strikes a few chords on the piano in the 
next room. He looks at his watch t shows 
annoyance, vexation, impatience. She strikes 
a few more chords. He makes a step to- 
wards door, drops into a chair with disgust ; 
knocks his fist fiercely on to his knee. She 
strikes a few more chords. He makes a 
grimace and shrug of heedlessness. His 
face shows a sudden resolve. He smiles 
and nods to himself. 

[Lora re-enters.] 

Lora. Aren't you coming ? [Norton 7'ises quickly, 
and goes to her with a show of eager affection.] Don't 
you want to hear me ? 

Norton. [Taking her in his arms.] Always! 
Always ! 

Lora. [Responding to his embrace.] Ah ! Do you 
mean that ? Have I won you back ? 
Norton. You have never lost me. 

[Embracing her. She draws him to her, kisses 
him passionately, again and again ; then 
bursts into tears, falls into a chair, sobbing 
and laughing hysterically. He stands be- 
hind her, and makes a shrug of pity and 
helplessness ; then shows vexation as she 
continues sobbing. 
Lora. [Getting calmer.] Don't take any notice of 
me. I shall be better in a moment. [He moves a step 
or two behind her, looking at her, showing annoyance 



122 THE DIVINE GIFT act 11 

and impatience.'] There! [Wiping her eyes and smiling 
at him through her tears.] It's all over now. [Still 
sobbing and crying a little.] I couldn't help it, [Jumps 
up.] Oh, I'm so happy ! 

Norton. You see you were right. You know me 
better than I know myself. 

Lora. Of course I do. I knew you'd come home 
to me. You couldn't do without me for long, could 
you ? 

Norton. I sha'n't try, after this. 

Lora. Are you sure? Promise me. No, don't 
promise, because I know you wouldn't keep it. Would 
you ? Could you ? 

Norton. I won't promise this time. I'll surprise 
you, by behaving as perfectly as the man who has 
the honour of being loved by you ought to 
behave. And if I don't quite live up to it, it's 
only because no man could hope to be perfect 
enough [putting his arm fondly round her waist, and 
speaking with great tenderness] to deserve such love as 
yours. 

Lora. No ; don't make me pretty speeches. 

Norton. [Same soft, tender tone.] What, not when 
I mean them ? 

Lora. Do you mean them ? Then why are you 
unkind to me ? 

Norton. Only that I may have the pleasure of 
hearing you say that you forgive me. 

Lora. Forgive you ? I'm yours to do as you please 
with. Beat me, bruise me, stab me — only love me, 
and I'll forgive you. That's all past. Now let's talk 



act ii THE DIVINE GIFT 123 

of the future. We're going to be happier than we have 
ever been. Don't you feel that ? I've given up my 
tour, so I'm quite free. Where shall we spend the 
winter ? You said you'd like Italy and Egypt. 

Norton. Where would you like ? 

Lora. No, you shall choose everything for me, except 
the man I love ; and I'll choose nothing for you, ex- 
cept the woman you love. 

Norton. [Very tenderly.] I've chosen her myself. 

Lora. And you've chosen so wisely ! Now ! Where 
shall we go ? Shall it be Italy and Egypt ? 

Norton. The world's end, in your company. 

Lora. I'll hunt up all the routes and trains to- 
morrow. We'll get away from England as soon as we 
can, shall we ? And when we come back in the spring 
we'll take the dearest little place in the country — 
somewhere in Kent, or the Surrey Hills, where we 
can easily get to town, and people can easily get down 
to us. And you shall have your horses, and your gun, 
and your dogs ; especially this faithful dog, who'll 
follow you when you want her company ; and fetch 
and carry ; and lie down and watch you when she's 
told; and sometimes steal up to you, and put her 
paws on your shoulder, and look at you out of her 
swimming eyes, and say, "Haven't you got a little 
love to give me, Master ? I've nothing to do all my 
life long but wait on you, Master," 

Norton. But you mustn't give up your profession. 

Lora. Yes. It takes up so much of my time and 
thought ; rehearsing all day and singing till midnight, 
and having to meet people, and listen to their stupid 



124 THE DIVINE GIFT act n 

flatteries, and go to their silly lunches and receptions, 
and be stared and smirked at — it's all so idiotic. It 
bores me till I can't bear myself. That's why I've 
often been so fretful and tiresome to you. I've never 
been able to give you my best. But I will. You'll 
see. It shall be so different in the days to come. 
I've never really had a home ; I'm going to have one 
at last. You know I'm really a home bird. 

Norton. But you mustn't stop singing. 

Lora. Well, I'll sing to you whenever you want to 
hear me. And I'll sing to the public — sometimes — 
perhaps. But not this next season. That shall be 
entirely yours. And listen, bad boy, you'll never 
play truant from me again ! 

Norton. No. I'll never play truant from you 
again. 

Lora. That's right. Just keep on loving me as 
much as you can, and I'll keep on loving you — a hun- 
dred times more than I can. [Breaking from him.] 
Oh, I've never been so happy ? 

[Norton looks at his watch. 

Lora. You're thinking about dinner. It's sure to 
be something you'll like. And after dinner I'll sing 
to you a little, and then — we won't stay very late. 
I've ordered my motor at a quarter to eleven. 

Norton. Right. I'll get you to put me down at 
the Club. 

Lora. At the Club? 

Norton. I've an appointment there at a quarter 
past eleven. 

Lora. It won't keep you very long ? 



act ii THE DIVINE GIFT 125 

Norton. I'm afraid it will — an hour at least, per- 
haps two. 

Lora. Can't you put it off? Think — to-night, 
George — you might put it off for to-night. 

Norton. I can't very well get out of it. 

Lora. I'll wait for you. 

Norton. No. I mustn't keep you out there in the 
cold. 

Lora. You've kept me out in the cold for a good 
many weeks. An hour or two longer won't much 
matter. 

Norton. No. You'd better drop me and go 
on 

Lora. You'll come? 

Norton. [After a slight hesitation.] Yes — of 
course. 

Lora. You're sure? [Suddenly.] You don't mean 
to come ! 

Norton. Yes, if I get through in anything like 

decent time. If I don't, I'll run round in the morning. 

[There is an awkward silence for some moments. 

Lora. This appointment ? It's some very urgent 
business ? 

Norton. Obviously. Could anything but urgent 
business keep me from you ? 

Lora. Who is it you are going to meet ? 

Norton. Oh, my dear Lora, you mustn't be in- 
quisitive. 

Lora. I'm not inquisitive. I've never been mean, 
or petty, or prying. Have I ? 

Norton. Your behaviour has always been perfect 



126 THE DIVINE GIFT act n 

and charming. [Gracefully hissing her hand.] I'm 
sure it will continue to be so. Now, shall we have a 
pleasant little dinner, and some music, and then you 
shall drop me at the Club. 

Lora. No. [She walks desperately about the room 
for a few seconds ; then stops in front of him.] You're 
going to meet that woman. [He doesn't reply.] You're 
going to meet that woman. Do you deny it ? 

Norton. Impossible for me to deny what a lady 
so confidently affirms. 

Lora. After what you have said to me here a few 
moments ago, you are going from me to her ? You 
are capable of that ? 

Norton. I'm afraid I'm very much like the 
prophet Habakkuk. I am capable de tout. 

Lora. This appointment is with her ? Have you 
any further appointments with her? I'm not 
inquisitive. But six months ago you planned to 
spend the winter with me. You have made other 
plans ? 

Norton. I'm sure it couldn't give you any 
pleasure to discuss them. 

Lora. No. But I want to know. All the time I 
have lived with you, I have never known when to 
trust you. Now we are parting, for once be honest 
with me. Tell me the truth. 

Norton. If you wish. I'm leaving Charing Cross 
at nine to-morrow morning. The tickets are taken, 
and the servants have gone on with the luggage. 

Lora. Where are you going ? 

Norton. Italy and Egypt. 



act ii THE DIVINE GIFT 127 

Lora. [Very quietly, very bitterly.] Italy and Egypt. 
Thank you. Now I know. 

Norton. That being so, what do you wish me to 
do ? Shall I go to Cutler and make my excuses, and 
give him an unpleasant evening ? Or would you 
rather I stayed and went through the dinner ? I'm 
afraid it wouldn't be a very agreeable time for any of 
us. But I am at your service. 

Lora. You're at my service ? 

Norton. Now, and always. 

Lora. You're at my service ? No, you're at the 
service of any thing in skirts that catches your 
fancy. The dustman who carts the street rubbish 
from house to house is better employed than you, 
you scavenger ! You're at my service ? No, it's I 
who have been at your service. It's I who have 
crawled up to you, and begged for leave to wait on 
you and be your slave. For four years I have given 
you all, all — yes more — that the purest and truest 
woman could give to the best and truest man. Oh, 
my God ! Has ever a woman loved a man as I have 
loved you ? Has ever a woman humbled herself as I 
have humbled myself to you ? And for what ? How 
have you paid me ? You have always lied to me. Even 
when you loved me most — and you have loved me, 
George Norton — if there has ever been any love in 
that heart of yours that's been worth having, I've 
had it — you'll never love another woman as you have 
loved me — but what has your best love been worth ? 
Even in our happiest moments, you have always been 
ready to trick and deceive me. Don't you think I 



128 THE DIVINE GIFT act n 

know you ? Well, I deserve to be treated as you have 
treated me ! How else could you treat any woman ? 
You're at my service ? No, I've been at your service, 
and in your service for four years. I've served you 
faithfully, and I've got my wages. Now go to her ! 
Say the same things to her that you've said to me. 
Whisper you old lies and flatteries to her. Play the 
same tricks on her that you've played on me. Go 
to her ! Let her serve you as I have done, let her 
find you as heartless as I have done, and then — 
kick her from you as you have kicked me. Go to 
her ! 

[Norton stands very quietly for some little 
time. 

Norton. Believe me, I am deeply sensible of the 
cruel wrong I have done you. I beg your pardon, 
with all my heart. I am sorry our attachment — our 
love for each other — should end like this. 

Lora. It has ended. Good-night. 

Norton. Good-bye. 

[Re is going off when Cutler enters in 
evening dress. 

Cutler. [Cheerily.] Well, you've come to an 
understanding, I hope ? 
Norton. Yes. Good-night. 
Cutler. Good-night? 

Norton. Good-night. [Bows to Lora, Exit. 

Cutler. One moment, George — you're not going ? 

[Exit after him. 



act ii THE DIVINE GIFT 129 

[Lor A goes very quietly to chair, sits, stcwes 
hopelessly out. After a second or two 
Cutler enters, very slowly and sadly — 
he looks at Lora, ivho sits motionless, 
tearless ; comes up to her, vnth great 
sympathy, puts his hand on her shoulder. 

Cutler. Poor child of the storm ! 



CURTAIN. 



ACT III 

Scene : The same on an evening in the following June. 
The windows on the balcony are thrown wide open. 
As the curtain rises a faint flush of pink is seen 
along the distant horizon over the intervening 
wooded June landscape. The shy above is soft 
evening blue with white fleecy clouds. The sunset 
advances and the sky darkens through the act ; 
an orange-pink glow touches the lower clouds and 
gradually mounts till it compasses the higher clouds; 
the twilight comes on; lights dot the darkening 
plain ; the clouds glow with a darker orange and 
red as the day dies down into night. 

Discover Cutler standing above the table right handling 
some sheets of MS. Lora in a summer dress with 
a book in her hand enters from the balcony. Her 
face is a little paler than in the earlier acts, and 
has a more settled sadness ; her manner is more 
subdued and restrained. 

Lora. [Putting down the book.] Have you finished 
your article? 

Cutler. Not quite. It's a very large subject : 
" The Future of the Human Race." 

131 



132 THE DIVINE GIFT act in 

Lora. That is a large subject. 

Cutler. I've nearly disposed of them. Seccoinbe 
is coming in by and by to take down the last sheet 
and get it off to the printers. Oh, by the way, I'm 
expecting my little friend Mrs. Janway, and I've 
asked her husband to meet her. He couldn't get up 
from Oakminster in time for dinner ; so I've put 
it off and ordered supper instead, if you don't 
mind? 

Lora. [Has taken off her hat.] Not at all. I'm not 
hungry, and it seems a sin to eat in this heavenly 
weather. 

Cutler. I hope I shall persuade Will and Evie to 
stay, but I expect I shall have a pretty stiff job 
with him. 

Lora. I'm sorry she had got herself into such 
trouble 

Cutler. Foolish people must needs work out a 
foolish destiny. 

Lora. And wise people too. We're all alike. 

Cutler. No, wise people control their destiny, as 
you are going to control yours. Come now, what are 
going to do ? 

Lora. I shall go down to North Devon for a few 
weeks — perhaps stay there all the summer. 

Cutler. You'd much better stay on here. 

Lora. No, dear sage. You've been very kind to 
lend me your house, and I've enjoyed being here all 
this wonderful spring. But now you are home again 
I feel I must be moving on. 

Cutler. Nonsense ! Stay on with me. It's bringing 



act in THE DIVINE GIFT 133 

you round. Last night, when you were singing, you 
were quite your old self 

Lora. I don't want to be my old self. 

Cutler. Well, a new self. 

Lora. No, she might turn out to be a more foolish 
and more unhappy creature than the old Lora. No, 
I don't want to be anything or anybody, but just to 
float on, and let life do what it likes with me, and 
carry me where it pleases. 

Cutler. But I can't let you drift. This new 
opera of Treganza's seems to have the right stuff in 
it, eh ? 

Lora. Yes — that's another reason why I must 

go- 

Cutler. What? 

Lora. The poor boy has fallen in love with me. 

Cutler. Confound this universal amorosity that's 
always confounding everything else in the universe. 
I guessed he had. Well, you can keep him at a safe 
distance 

Lora. Yes. But I like him, and I don't want to 
be cruel to him. If I go away from him now, he'll 
have a bad month or so and forget me. But if we 
work together on his new opera, and make it a success, 
he'll only go on falling more deeply in love with me, 
and then — with his temperament — I might ruin his 
future and break his heart. And there are too many 
broken hearts already in the world. 

Cutler. Oh, one more won't matter very much. 
He'll get over it. You mustn't think of him. You 
must give all your thoughts to your work for a year 



134 THE DIVINE GIFT act in 

or two, and then, if some decent, kind, sensible fellow 
comes your way — why not marry him ? 

Lora. [Shakes her head sadly.'] Marriage is not for 
me — now. If I'd not had a voice, I might have had 
a home and children and friends, and a quiet heart. 
But now ? I'm not fitted for marriage. Oh, pity my 
husband, if I did marry ! 

Cutler. Why? 

Lora. I can't live a home life now. George Norton 
spoiled me for that. Or perhaps I spoiled myself 
before I met him. I don't think I have any real life 
left to live. But if I do grow out of this, and live 
again, I think it will be in some wild, selfish, reckless 
way. 

Cutler. No ! No ! Disordered genius ? Unkempt 
genius? Spendthrift genius? Depraved genius? 
Crazy genius ? No ! No ! No ! Well-ordered genius ! 
Persistent genius ! Wise genius ! Sane genius ! 

Lora. Dear sage, do let me know myself. You 
can't guess what depths there are here. I daren't 
look at them. 

Cutler. Well, don't. Stay on here. Grow calmer 
and stronger every day. Steady yourself, and set to 
work on " Fair Rosamond " 

Lora. That might be the worst thing of all for 
me. 

Cutler. How? 

Lora. This poor boy — he loves me, and I'm fond 
of him. His bright eyes, his enthusiasm, and his love 
for music — he is so young — it all means so much to 
him 



act in THE DIVINE GIFT 135 

Cutler. But you surely aren't going to fall in love 
with him ? 

Lora. No, I don't suppose so. 

Cutler. For heaven's sake, no. Not a musician, or 
an artist, or an actor. Let it be a human being. 

Lora. I hope it won't be anybody for his sake, 
whoever he may be. 

Cutler. Why is he so much to be pitied ? 

Lora. I can't give him anything worth having. I 
had the power of constancy. I've lost it. I've lost my 
moorings. Anything may happen to me. I can't trust 
myself. If I do love again, I shall be jealous, capri- 
cious, ungovernable, unfaithful 

Cutler. Well, then don't love again. But I suppose 
you will ? 

Lora. Yes, I daresay — after a fashion. But not as 
I loved George. Have you heard from him ? 

Cutler. [After a slight hesitation.] Yes. There was 
a letter waiting for me when I got home yesterday. 

Lora. [Indifferently.] Where is he ? 

Cutler. First of all, tell me quite truly how you 
feel towards him. 

Lora. Not bitterly. A little tenderly and pityingly. 

Cutler. You have no love left for him? 

Lora. Not a spark. 

Cutler. You're sure of that ? Your love for him 
is quite dead ? 

Lora. Quite. I could meet him almost like a 
stranger. What a curious mocking thing a dead love 
is. Like what you showed me in that old urn this 
morning. All the burning kisses and vows and tears — 



I 36 THE DIVINE GIFT act hi 

nothing but ashes ; a little heap of gray ashes that 
were once a man. Where is George ? 

Cutler. In London. 

Lora. You've seen him ? 

Cutler. Yes, I left him an hour ago. 

Lora. I hope he's well and happy. 

Cutler. No. He has had a very bad time. He 
was taken with typhoid in Italy, and nearly died of it. 

Lora. You never told me. 

Cutler. What would have been the use? You 
were ill yourself. That laid him up until March. He 
has had one or two relapses, and is still very weak 
and shaky. 

Lora. And his paroquet ? 

Cutler. She got frightened of infection, robbed 
him of everything she could lay her hands on, and 
packed off to Egypt, leaving him to die. 

Lora. He needed me then. 

Cutler. Well, he just pulled through, dragged 
himself to Sicily, and has stayed there ever since. 
He only got to England on Monday. 

Lora. Is he very much broken ? 

Cutler. Yes, and terribly depressed. Not at all 
like himself. George has lost all his old pride in 
evil-doing. It's only healthy people who can be 
joyous sinners. 

Lora. What's he going to do ? 

Cutler. I'm afraid he's going to try to see you. 
[Watching her closely.] I told him it could be only 
useless and painful to you both. 

Lora, Yes. 



act in THE DIVINE GIFT 137 

Cutler. He's writing to you. Perhaps he'll call. 
You won't see him ? 

Lora. Yes, I think 

Cutler. No, better not 

Lora. You needn't fear, dear sage. George has 
gone out of my life. 

Cutler. Well, who and what is coming into it to 
take his place ? 

Lora. Nothing at present. 

Cutler. Is Treganza coming round this evening ? 

Lora. Oh yes. He's sure to. You think George 
will get over this ? 

Cutler. Yes, but it will take some time. It has 
knocked him all to pieces. 

Lora. I'm so sorry for him. 

Cutler. [Has gone up to balcony and is looking out.] 
Isn't that t Treganza hanging round outside the palings ? 

Lora. He does that every evening. He never 
comes in, unless I go down to the garden gate and 
invite him, dear foolish chivalrous boy. I dare say 
he'll be there soon. 

Cutler. Ask him in, and we'll have a little more 
" Fair Rosamond." 

Lora. [Looking off.] I never grow tired of this land- 
scape ; and to-night it seems more beautiful than ever. 

Cutler. Ah, the iron old Mother grows tender to 
us sometimes. That flush of Northern sunset in the 
long June evenings ! 

Lora. What a pity the longest day will soon be 
here — and pass. 

[Sandford enters. 



138 THE DIVINE GIFT act hi 

Sandford. [Announces.} Mrs. Jan way. 

[Enter Evie. Exit Sandford. 

[Evie is dressed in a very smart summer 
toilette. She looks distressed and downcast, 
and has the air of a martyr. 

Evie. How d'ye do, dear Guardy ? [Kissing Cutler.] 

Cutler. How are you, my dear ? 

Evie. Madame Delmar ! [Shaking hands with 
Lora.] 

Lora. How d'ye do ? Mr. Cutler tells me you're 
going to stay and have supper with us 

Evie. Yes — I don't know — yes, I suppose. 

Lora. Then we shall meet again, sha'n't we ? 

[Goes off at balcony. 

[Evie has thrown herself into a chair, and has 
begun to cry a little. 

Cutler. Well, Evie, this is rather a sad bit of 
business. 

Evie. Isn't it ? Did you ever know a woman so 
pursued by misfortune as I am ? 

Cutler. Never. 

Evie. Every high and noble thing I do only brings 
me greater misery. 

Cutler. Our virtues betray us as often as our faults. 

Evie. Have your arranged for Will to meet me ? 

Cutler. Yes. He's coming up from Oakminster. 
[Taking out watch.] He'll be here soon. 

Evie, You got my letter from Lucerne ? 

Cutler. Yes, but it was a little disjointed 



act m THE DIVINE GIFT 139 

Evie. Can you wonder, considering the awful state 
I was in ? 

Cutler. Tell me exactly how it happened. Your 
first letters from Tarasp were so cheerful. You 
seemed to have settled down so comfortably with Miss 
Lambert and Karlinski. 

Evie. Yes, so we did. Of course I had no idea of 
the dreadful reputation Karlinski had. 

Cutler. As a violinist ? 

Evie. No, as a He has had love affairs with 

everybody. 

Cutler. Busy creature ! But you and Miss 
Lambert were staying at the other hotel ? 

Evie. Yes, but I've since found out that he had an 
affair with her. 

Cutler. Quite an affairist, it seems. 

Evie. Yes, and at his own hotel there was a 
Mrs. Berriman — I'm almost sure — and a tall, light- 
haired woman 

Cutler. Are these things possible in the High 
Alps ? And do the Eternal Heavens look down un- 
moved ? 

Evie. Guardy, you might be serious for once, when 
you see the terrible position I am in. [Crying. 

Cutler. I'm sorry, my dear. Tell me the rest of it. 

Evie. Well, it was all a carefully planned scheme 
between Mary Lambert and Karlinski to get hold of 
my money. 

Cutler. Sort of three card trick, eh ? 

Evie. Yes. It was Karlinski who advised me to 
take Mary Lambert out to Switzerland with me to 



140 THE DIVINE GIFT act hi 

train my voice. They knew I was divorcing Will, 
and that Will was making me a handsome settlement. 
So they planned that Karlinski should marry me for 
the sake of my fortune. 

Cutler. Les affaires sont les affaires. 

Evie. They thought, of course, when they got me 
out there, that I should be persuaded to accept 
Karlinski. But when they found I was determined 
to live for art alone, they had to try another plan. 

Cutler. What was that ? 

Evie. We stayed on at Tarasp till the end of March. 

Cutler. They attending to their own " affairs.," and 
you training your voice 

Evie. Yes. And I wrote a small volume of poems. 
I'll show them to you some day. 

Cutler. Thank you. Poems ? You were well on 
your way to your great future. 

Evie. Yes, and if it hadn't been for my generous 
confiding nature I should have realized it. For I 
have got it in me, haven't I ? [Re doesn't reply .] I'm 
sure I have. I'm sure I have. 

Cutler. Well, you trained your voice ? 

Evie. Yes, and it developed splendidly. You've no 
idea what my voice has become — quite a rich powerful 
organ. So I decided to give a concert. That gave 
Mary Lambert and Karlinski their chance. 

Cutler. Chance of what ? 

Evie. Of getting me into their power. They had a 
lot of musical friends at Davos ; so they persuaded 
me to give the concert there. They went on to 
arrange it, leaving me to follow in a lew days. Mary 



act in THE DIVINE GIFT 141 

Lambert had begged me to lend her my maid, as 
there was so much to do for the concert. So I had to 
go on to Davos alone. When I got just beyond Sus, 
there was a heavy snowstorm, and I was forced to 
take shelter in a wretched dirty little inn at the 
top of the pass. The next day Karlinski came on 
to fetch me to Davos. But it snowed worse than 
ever, and his horses broke down, at least he said so. 
So he pretended he must stay on at the inn. Of 
course he had planned it all. 

Cutler. He could scarcely have planned the snow- 
storm. 

Evie. No, but he ought to have fought his way 
out of it, to save my reputation. Instead of that he 
stayed ; and there I was, shut up in that dreadful 
hole with Karlinski for over a fortnight, and nobody 
within miles, except the dirty innkeeper and his dirty 
fat wife, and the chickens. 

Cutler. Art demands heavy sacrifices from her 
victims. 

Evie. Oh, please don't. Can't you see what a 
terrible situation I was in ? Karlinski would keep 
on making love to me. I put myself under the 
protection of the dirty landlady, but she only laughed 
at me, and pretended to think I was married to 
Karlinski. Of course Karlinski had bribed them. 

Cutler. Couldn't you possibly get through ? 

Evie. No, the roads were quite blocked. And 
Mary Lambert kept on advertising the concert, with 
Karlinski for my accompanist. When we did get 
down to Davos, I didn't want to give the concert, but 



142 THE DIVINE GIFT act in 

they said all the tickets were taken, and I must keep 
faith with the public. Well, the night came and the 
room was crammed. I had caught a dreadful cold 
on the pass, but still I sang splendidly — considering 
I had lost my high notes. But there wasn't any 
applause, scarcely a hand. 

Cutler. Ungrateful brutes, the public. 

Evie. No. They appreciated me, but they didn't 
applaud. 

Cutler. Held themselves in, eh ? Why did they 
do that ? 

Evie. Because Mary Lambert put it about the 
hotel that Karlinski and I were engaged, and that 
I was going to marry him as soon as I got my divorce. 
I found that everybody had been talking about me ; 
and the next day the best people in the hotel 
wouldn't speak to me. Can you imagine anything 
more dreadful ? 

Cutler. What did you do ? 

Evie. I explained to them that there was nothing 
between Karlinski and me, — absolutely nothing ; but 
I could see they didn't believe me. Karlinski and 
Mary Lambert tried to persuade me that the only thing 
to do was to let Will make Karlinski co-respondent 
in the divorce case, and then he would marry me. Of 
course I refused, and got away to Lucerne. There 
I happened to meet the Pumphreys. I told them 
what had happened, and they took me in. Then I 
wrote a full account of it to Will, but he only wrote 
a cold, heartless letter. And now he won't have 
anything to do with me. [Whimpering. 



act in THE DIVINE GIFT 143 

Cutler. How did it get into the papers ? 
Evie. Karlinski must have sent paragraphs all 
round, thinking it would force me to marry him. 
Will must contradict the papers at once. 

Cutler. It's a dangerous thing to contradict news- 
papers. They always have the last word. 

Evie. But who is to defend my reputation ? I 
can't defend it myself. Somebody must defend it. 
Surely it's my husband's duty to defend my repu- 
tation, 

Cutler. But, my dear Evie, you are- getting a 
divorce. 

Evie. No, I'm not. 
Cutler. You're not ? 

Evie. I can't have a divorce now. Naturally, I 
don't want one. I've instructed my lawyers to with- 
draw my petition. 

Cutler. But Will seems anxious to go on. 
Evie. He can't. I've taken it off the list. Guardy, 
you must see that I can't go about the world alone, 
with this disgrace hanging over me. The only pos- 
sible thing for me to do now is to go back to Oak- 
minster as Will's wife. That will convince everybody 
I am quite innocent. 

Cutler, But Will doesn't seem very much inclined 
to take you back. 

Evie. Oh, but he must. He knows that I have 
behaved quite properly throughout. You know it, 
Guardy, don't you ? You're sure of it ? 
Cutler. Quite sure, my dear. 
Evie. Then why shouldn't he take me back ? Surely 



144 THE DIVINE GIFT act hi 

it's his duty as my husband to stand by me. Especially 
as I've been trapped into this awful position through 
no fault of my own. I couldn't have avoided it, 
could I ? 

Cutler. Only by remaining at Oakminster as his 
wife, instead of flying off' to the High Alps. 

Evie. But then I should have had to sacrifice my 
whole artistic career. And because I dared to follow 
the highest that was in me, I find all the hotel visitors 
cutting me, and everybody believing that I'm not a 
good woman. Guardy, why are things like that 
allowed to happen ? 

Cutler. The monstrously unfair treatment that 
Providence deals out to deserving people is fully dis- 
cussed in the Book of Job. The only conclusion 
reached there, is the violently improbable one of 
a happy ending. 

Evie. [Sobbing.] If it had been my own fault I 
could have borne it 

[Enter Sandford. 

Sandford. Mr. Janway is in the next room, sir. 

Cutler. Show him in. 

Sandford. I mentioned that Mrs. Janway was with 
you, and he asked me to tell you that he wishes to see 
you alone. 

Cutler. Very well, Sandford. I'll be there in a 
minute. [Exit Sandford. 

Evie. You see ! He won't even do me the bare 
justice to see me, and hear my story. 

Cutler. You have quite made up your mind not to 
have a divorce ? 



act m THE DIVINE GIFT 145 

Evie. Quite. So he must take me home with him. 
He can't divorce me now that he has taken some 
person to Brighton, and given my lawyers the evidence. 
You might point that out to him. 

Cutler. I suppose I may tell him that if he does 
take you back, you'll do everything you can to make 
him comfortable, and the home happy ? 

Evie. Of course I shall. I always have sacrificed 
myself to his wishes, when they haven't interfered 
with my sense of what is clearly due to myself. 

Cutler. [Going off.] We'll hear what Will has got 
to say. 

Evie. [Bursts into fresh tears.] Guardy, why is it 
that I am always singled out for unhappiness and 
misfortune ? 

[Cutler shrugs his shoulders and goes off. 
[Evie continues crying. Lora enters at window 
and comes down towards Evie. 

Lora. [Seeing that Evie is crying.] I beg pardon. 

[Is going off. 

Evie. No, please don't go. 

Lora. [Coining back to her.] Can I help you at all ? 

Evie. No, thank you? At least — I suppose you 
have heard of my undeserved trouble ? 

Lora. Mr. Cutler has given me a few particulars. 
I'm very sorry. I hope it will all come right. 

Evie. Yes, but even if it does, my artistic career is 
utterly ruined for the time. Who knows? I may 
never be able to show the world what I have in me. 
[Looking enviously at Lora.] Oh, what triumphs you've 
had ! You have been lucky. 

K 



146 THE DIVINE GIFT act hi 

Lora. Have I ? 

Evie. Well, haven't you ? Your pictures are in all 
the shop windows ; and they write to you for your 
autograph ; and you get columns of praise in all 
the papers whenever you appear. You've had nothing 
but one long round of success and happiness. 

Lora. You think I've been happy ? 

Evie. Well, if you haven't you ought to have been. 
Really it seems to me that some women are never 
satisfied. Look how different my life has been from 
yours. 

Lora. I hope so. 

Evie. What do you mean ? You must be very 
hard to please. 

Lora. I don't think you'd say that, if you knew 
what my life has been. 

Evie. Tell me. I've often wished to question you. 
Do tell me 

Lora. No, it's not worth telling. 

Evie. Yes, do please. It may be a guide to me in 
my own career when I take it up again. 

Lora. You're going on with your music ? 

Evie. Yes, I'm fondest of that. But just now I 
can't decide. I may devote myself to poetry, or 
painting. There are so many objectionable things 
and people connected with music — especially for a 
woman, aren't there ? 

Lora. Yes. I wouldn't risk it, if I were 
you. You wouldn't, if you knew what I've gone 
through. 

Evie. What have you gone through ? Tell me. I 



act in THE DIVINE GIFT 147 

should be so grateful. Of course I don't want to 
know your private life 

Lora. Oh, I don't mind your knowing, There is 
nothing in my private life that isn't known to some- 
body who is no more to me than you are. 

Evie. Then do tell me. 

Lora. [Looks at her very pityingly for a while.] 
Yes, it might be a guide to you. 

Evie. Where were you brought up ? 

Lora. [Speaking all through in a quiet, passionless, 
matter-of-fact tone, without any trace of self-pity.] In 
Halligan's menagerie. I never saw my father. My 
mother was called Signora Gianelli, the renowned 
lion-tamer. One of the first things I remember was 
her coaxing me to stroke a lion's neck. 

Evie. And did you ? 

Lora. Yes. They were well fed and harmless. 
She was plucky and healthy and handsome, with 
Italian blood in her. She gave me her pluck. I've 
scarcely ever known fear. 

Evie. How delightful that must be ! 

Lora. She didn't earn very much, so when I was 
six, she took me into the cage with her. They brought 
out a large yellow and red poster of my mother with 
her foot on a lion's neck, and me in her arms. That 
was on all the walls of the towns we visited. So you 
see I've always been used to that kind of fame. That's 
the reason I don't think much of it now. 

Evie. But it must have been very exciting. 

Lora. No; it was everyday work. I suppose I 
was an attractive child, for when I was ten they put 



148 THE DIVINE GIFT act in 

me outside at every performance to dance, and make 
a speech inviting the crowd to come in. I liked that, 
because I had a red velvet spangled dress, and every- 
body noticed me. I had to speak up. That gave my 
voice its power. There was always the crowd, and 
the music, and the flaring lamps. I did that for 
three years, If ever I've been happy in my life, it 
was then. 

Evie. You had to mix with a lot of common people ? 

Lora. I had to mix with human nature. I had to 
put up with a good deal at times, and listen to bad 
language and coarse jests. But I took no notice of it, 
and the menagerie people were kind and hardworking, 
and quite respectable. 

Evie. How very interesting ! 

Lora. One night at Gloucester a dear old lady 
stopped and talked to me. She asked my mother and 
me to her house. In the end she took me away from 
the menagerie, and sent me to a fashionable boarding 
school at Eastbourne. 

Evie. 1 wondered how it was that you are so — so 
refined. 

Lora. Am I refined ? The girls at the school made 
my life a hell to me. I wasn't of their class ; they 
scarcely spoke to me, except to taunt me, and mimic 
my bad manners. But I was quick, and I soon learned 
to talk and behave like them. And I had music and 
singing lessons. But, oh, the misery of that time ! 
After two years I ran away, back to my mother and 
the menagerie. I tried to take up that life again, but 
I couldn't. I hated it. Then, one night, Stanley, the 



act in THE DIVINE GIFT 149 

tame old lion, got angry, and nearly tore my mother 
to pieces. She just escaped with her life, but she was 
a wreck, and fit for nothing. 

Evie. What did you do then ? 

Lora. [Very quiet all through.] Starved. Starved. 
Starved. For four years my mother and I starved 
together. I've sung and danced in the streets. I've 
sung and danced at race-meetings. I've sung and 
danced in public-houses. Then my mother died, and 
I got an engagement in the chorus of a provincial 
opera company, The next two or three years I only 
half -starved. I married a careless good-for-nothing, a 
weak brute, who took my salary, and got drunk and 
tortured me. I left him, and took up with other men 
— I don't know who, I don't remember — what does it 
matter ? They were nothing to me, though I lived with 
them. Some of them were kind, and good comrades. 
But they were no more than chance acquaintances. I 
took up with them, because I was quite hopeless of 
ever getting oat of it — they were part of it all — dirty 
lodging-houses, dirty meals, dirty theatres, dirty 
dresses ; nights in trains ; salaries not paid ; no future, 
nothing to live for — just hurried, helpless getting 
through from day to day. 

Evie. I had no idea what that kind of life was like. 
It must have been very disagreeable. 

Lora. But I worked hard all the while, though 
I hadn't the least hope. I knew I had a voice. So 
have many singers in the street. I never expected 
to get a hearing. You think I've been successful? 
For years I had nothing but failure, failure, failure, 



150 THE DIVINE GIFT act hi 

disappointment, disappointment, disappointment. But 
I worked on. Then Lewis Gordon sent out a new 
opera company to tour the provinces. I got an 
engagement for small parts. He took a great deal of 
notice of me. I saw that I had attracted him. In 
the vacation he sent me to Berlin and Dresden, to 
study under good masters. How I worked then ! 
When I came back in the autumn, there was another 
woman in the company — Ella Raymond. She could 
sing too ; and she did all she could to get hold of 
Lewis Gordon. It was a neck-and-neck race between 
her and me, for Gordon and the public. How that 
woman and I hated each other ! We quarrelled and 
almost fought on the stage. We did every mean 
thing we could think of to get the better of each 
other, and put each other wrong with the audience. 
I saw it was to be her or me. I determined it should 
be me. It was my only chance. I got hold of Lewis 
Gordon, and I downed her. Yes, I crushed her. 
She had to leave the company, and she never got 
another good engagement. Then I was sorry for her. 
She fell ill, poor creature. I can't tell you what I 
suffered for what I had done to her. I made her a 
good allowance that kept her comfortably. When 
I could, I nursed her ; and she died kissing me and 
calling me her only friend. You're shocked and sur- 
prised at all this ? 

Evie. Do, please, go on. 

Lora. I kept on working. I got on very well 
with Lewis Gordon. He was an educated man, and 
a gentleman. But he hadn't any character, and I 



act in THE DIVINE GIFT 151 

couldn't love him. Just then, if I had met a man 
whom I could love, I'd have easily died for him. We 
drifted away from each other ; and he found another 
attachment. He got tired of losing money, and gave 
up the company. Then I got an engagement at 
Covent Garden. I made a great success in a small 
part, and the next day I met a man whom I could 
love. That was the first time I had really loved. I 
didn't know I had it in me, to love a man as I loved 
him. And now I don't know why it was. It isn't 
good women who can give a man the most unselfish 
devoted love. They are faithful, without knowing 
what faithfulness means. It's such as I who can be 
faithful to a man. And I was faithful. I did love 
him. That made me sing. Then they found out 
I had a voice. I made success after success. I 
couldn't help it. It was all so easy. 

Evie. Surely you were happy then ? 

Lora. No. I was never sure of him for a moment. 
It was I who loved him. He loved me too in a way, 
but I kept the bank of our love. I stood to lose. I 
had rages and torments of jealousy, I was never free 
from it. Very often my happiness with him was 
misery, worse than misery itself. I never knew how 
I could suffer till then. No, it wasn't happiness. It 
was fever. Happy ? I've been happy, as a drunkard 
is happy. But real sure happiness ? I've never had 
a day of it in my life. I don't know what it means. 
Now you know all about me, 

[She has spoken very quietly throughout, as if 
telling the history of another person. 



152 THE DIVINE GIFT act hi 

Evie. Thank you for telling me all this. It must 
have been very painful to speak of. 

Lora. [Indifferent] No, it's past. It doesn't mean 
much to me now. But you know what I have had 
to go through to be what I am. Do you think it's 
worth while to risk it ? 

Evie. No, you've quite decided me against music, 
I shall give myself entirely to poetry. I have written 

enough poems to make a small volume 

Lora. Wouldn't it be better to give yourself entirely 
to your home and husband ? You have a chance, 
such as I have never had. [Very enviously.'] You may 

have a child 

Evie. I'm not fond of children. And they would 

interfere [Cutler looks in at the door. 

Cutler. Evie, will you come this way a moment ? 

[Exit, leaving the door open. 
Evie. Thank you so much. What you have told 
me will be such a guide to me. I'm so much obliged 
to you. [Exit. 

[Lora looks after her very pityingly ; then dis- 
misses her with a little helpless movement, 
and goes out on to the balcony ; stands 
there ivatching the setting sun ; waves her 
hand and beckons to some one in the 
garden. 
Lora. [Calling off.] Good evening. Yes, come up ! 
[John Treganza Joins her on the balcony. He 
is a bright-eyed, swarthy, handsome young 
Cornishman of tiventy-five ; with a con- 
tagious earnestness and, excitement ; a deep 



act in THE DIVINE GIFT 153 

voice, ivith a slight West Country accent ; 
joyoics, animated, hopeful, alert. He has 
some sheets of music in his hand. They 
come into the room. 
John. You don't mind my coming round ? 
Lora. No, I'm pleased. How have you been 
getting on ? 

John. Splendidly. I've been out in the woods all 
the afternoon, working like a steam engine. I can't 
stop myself. I've got Rosamond's song at last. It 
has been buzzing in my head all day. And I know 
if you'll let me be with you for a quarter of an hour, 
I can go out and score it down right off. Give me a 
quarter of an hour. 

[Looking at her ivith the most ardent love and 
longing. 
Lora. An hour, if you like. We're having a late 
supper to-night ; and Mr. Cutler wants you to come 
in and try some of the numbers. 

John. Yes, but I must get down Rosamond's song 
first. Let me be with you and talk to you. 

[His eyes are fixed greedily upon her. 
Lora. Very well. Tell me some more about your 
boy days, 

John. No, let me talk about you ; because I don't 
seem to have had any life before I met you. Ah, you 
don't know! The urst time I heard you sing at 
Covent Garden ! I went home just like a madman. 
I walked all the way to Norwood. It was moonlight, 
and London was like a fairy city. I came up 
the next night you sang. I never missed a single 



154 THE DIVINE GIFT act hi 

performance all the season. I used to wait outside the 
gallery door from three o'clock, and I always got the 
middle front seat. I clapped and shouted all through, 
and at the end I stayed and brought you on time 
after time. Then I used to go round to the stage 
door, and wait till you came out, and run after your 
motor till I couldn't breathe 

Lora. Poor boy ! 

John. No, no. There never was anybody so happy 
as I was — as I am. [Looking at her. 

Lora. Now we've had enough about me. Let's 
talk about yourself. 

John. No, there's only you in all the world. 

[Approaching as if to embrace her. 

Lora. You won't make love to me, will you ? 

John. Yes. Don't turn away from me. Let me 
love you ! I don't want you to love me, if you can't. 
But let me love you. That will be enough, 

Lora. [Gently pushing him from her, going away 
from him.] Tell me about the old church and the 
organ — and your mother. 

John. She used to say, " Now Jan, my sonny boy, 
daun't 'ee be vulish weth thase heere music. Tez oal 
very well, Jan, but thee've got thy living to make, 
Jan." And then I used to go to the old church, up 
to the organ loft, and play till it was dark, and when 
I got back to supper she'd say, "Thee'm maazed 
weth thase heere music, Jan. 'Twill send thee into 
the county 'sylum up to Bodmin, Jan." And I used 
to say, " I caent help ut, Mother." And then one 
night she gave in and said : " Tez no gude arguing 



act in THE DIVINE GIFT 155 

weth 'ee, Jan. If tez to be, tez to be, and so God 
bless 'ee, Jan." [Approaching her.] I wish you'd 
call me " Jan." Won't you ? Do ! Only once ! 

Lora. [Very tenderly .] Jan! 

John. Ah ! 

[He tries to clasp her, but she gently repulses him. 

Lora. No. I've told you that you mustn't make 
love to me. Listen, Jan. Your mother's dead. I'd 
like to be your mother, just for ten minutes. Will 
you let me ? And will you hear what I have to say, 
quite patiently and quietly ? 

John. Yes. 

Lora. [Putting Iter hand very affectionately on his 
arm.] If I were your mother, I'd say to you, " You're 
going to be very successful, Jan. Perhaps you'll make 
a great name in music. And you're going to be praised, 
and flattered, and made much of. You mustn't think 
too much of that. It means so little. But you know 
that ; because, you know, the only praise that's worth 
having is the praise that our own heart whispers to 
our own ear, when we are sure we have struck the 
right note." 

John. Yes, I know that. 

Lora. So you'll keep your head when popular 
success comes, won't you, my sonny boy? And you'll 
have your failures and disappointments — bitter ones, 
perhaps. They're good, too. They teach us. You'll 
make your failures help you, won't you, Jan ? 

John. Yes, but I couldn't fail if only you'd care 
for me a little. 

[Looking at her with very great longing. 



156 THE DIVINE GIFT act hi 

Lora. You promised you'd hear me. Yes [looking 
at him very tenderly and wistfully], you'll be successful 
and famous, perhaps, and the world will pet you and 
take you up. And you'll be loved, Jan, by many 
women. 

John. I only want to be loved by you. 

Lora. You'll be loved by many women 



John, But I can never love any woman but you. 

Lora. [Shakes her head.] You'll love many women. 
Your own mother wouldn't have spoken to you like 
this. She didn't know the world that you're going to 
live in. I do know it. Don't let it spoil you, Jan. 
Don't let women spoil you. You'll have to love 
them ; and [looking at him very sadly] perhaps they'll 
master you, and eat away all the freshness from your 
work, and break your heart. 

John. There's only one woman who can break my 
heart. 

Lora. There are many. [Looking at him very ten- 
derly.] Oh, it will be a pity ! 

John. What? 

Lora. If you don't reach the best of all. But 
you will, won't you, Jan ? You'll be loved many times, 
and have much trouble with it all ; but perhaps, some 
day, you'll find the one woman who can give you all 
her heart, all herself. 

John. [Passionately.] Can't you ? 

Lora. I can't. But some woman will. You'll know 
her when you meet her. Treat her very tenderly ; be 
faithful to her ; guard her love — it's a great possession. 
If there is anything worth guarding and cherishing on 



act in THE DIVINE GIFT 157 

earth, that's it. Remember what I've said, Jan. And 
God bless 'ee, my sonny boy ! 

John. [Imploringly.] Can't you love me ? 

Lora. [Shakes her head sadly.] I'm not fitted for 
such a love as you have to give. I'm not worthy of 
it. I might not be faithful to you — even if I could 
grow to love you. 

John. But you could grow to love me — you 
shall ! 

Lora. Not now, Jan. Don't press me. 

John. You don't love any one else ? 

Lora. No. 

John. Your heart is free ? 

Lora. My heart is dead, I think. 

John. I'll bring it back to life. I'll make you love 
me. 

Lora. Ah, no, Jan. For your own sake, don't try. 
Suppose I could love you, what could it mean for 
both of us ? I'm much older than you. 

John. You've many years of love to give to some 
one. Give it to me. 

Lora. I wouldn't be so cruel to you. 

John. It would be the best thing Heaven could 
give me. What is your future going to be without 
love? 

Lora. My future ? Don't speak of it. I haven't 
any. 

John. Yes, with me. You're going to sing my 
Rosamond ? 

Lora. Yes, I suppose« 

John. Won't you promise ? 



158 THE DIVINE GIFT act hi 

Lora. Yes, if you'll promise not to make love 
to me. 

John. I won't make a promise, because I know I 
couldn't keep it. But if you don't sing it, you will 
break my heart. 

Lora. I won't do that. 

John. [After a pause.] Give me one kiss ! 

Lora. Ah, no, don't ask me. 

John. Yes, one. I can do Rosamond's song then. 
Only one. I'll not ask for another till you give it 
me of your own free will — after our great success. 

Lora. You'll swear that ? 

John. I swear it. Give me one kiss. 

Lora. You are not to kiss me. [She kisses him very 
quietly and tenderly on his cheek.] 

John, Now I can do it! I'll run round to the 
little inn parlour, and score it down right away. 
[Snatching up his music] I'll be back with it, done. 
[On balcony.] Come down to the gate with me, won't 
you? 

[She joins him on balcony and they go off 
together. Will Janway and Cutler enter. 
Will flings himself into an arm-chair, 
evidently disgusted and annoyed. Cutler 
turns up the electric lights. 

Will. Well, this is a confounded pretty state of 
affairs, isn't it? And after I had faked up that 
beastly three days at Brighton. 

Cutler. Your Brighton excursion, like misconduct 
generally, seems to have, been largely super- 
fluous. 



act in THE DIVINE GIFT 159 

Will. And the only time the lady and I showed 
up together on the front, we ran straight into the 
Oakminster curate, and he would stop and talk. Of 
course I had to introduce the lady as my cousin. 
Well, the curate is a champion idiot, but he wasn't 
idiot enough to believe that ; especially as the lady 
didn't look like a genuine cousin, or a genuine any- 
thing, except a genuine what-she-was. So the curate 
fished out my hotel, and made inquiries ; and when 
he got back to Oakminster, he began talking about it. 
It got all over the town, and the vicar called to lecture 
me. Well, I couldn't stand his rowing, so he has 
made it pretty hot for me all round. Pumphrey is 
his churchwarden, and the Pumphreys have cut me. 
And I tell you, just at present Oakminster doesn't 
regard me as a highly moral character. 

Cutler. Never mind that, while you can so regard 
yourself. As doubtless you can, and do. 

Will. Well, I don't know about being very moral ; 
but I have been jolly badly used. 

Cutler. Don't think me curious ; but the last six 
months — how have your feminine relationships been 
— shall I say " functioning " ? 

Will. Ghastly. 

Cutler. You left here last November, intending to 
make a damned fool of yourself with some unknown fair. 

Will. I didn't intend — in fact, I intended to avoid 
it — as far as possible. 

Cutler. It was not possible. What happened ? 
Don't give me any particulars, but just a general 
impression. 



160 THE DIVINE GIFT act in 

Will. Well — oh, well — I'm hanged if I know 
exactly what has happened. Heaps of things I don't 
want to remember. It has been another silly mess 
up. I don't know — I want to go straight — I'm 
pretty sick of it. 

Cutler. Then you don't contemplate your be- 
haviour the last six months with unmingled pride 
and satisfaction ? 

Will. No, I'm hanged if I do. Anything but. 
I'm hanged well ashamed of myself. Though, under 
the circumstances, I don't see that I could have acted 
any differently. 

Cutler. Suppose you separate from Evie, will you 
be able to — pardon me using your own words — will 
you be able to shun the destiny of again making a 
damned fool of yourself ? What do you propose to 
do now ? 

Will. I don't propose to do anything. But I 
know jolly well what I shall do, if I'm left to 
myself. 

Cutler. With that modest estimate of your moral 
stability, wouldn't it be better to make it up with 
Evie? 

Will. I don't see what else I can do. Because you 
see the Pumphreys and most of my old friends at 
Oakminster are cutting me, by the vicar's orders. 
And Evie met the Pumphreys in Switzerland and got 
round them, and persuaded them I've treated her 
very badly. And if I don't take her back, the 
Pumphreys are going to invite her down to Oak- 
minster to stay with them. And she'll make every- 



act in THE DIVINE GIFT 161 

body believe that I'm a brute and that's she's a 
martyr. Pleasant outlook, eh ? 

Cutler. I'm afraid you'll have to take her 
back. 

Will. I suppose I shall. [Breaks out wrathfully.] 
How the deuce do women expect to be treated ? How 
is a man to treat them ? 

Cutler. After thirty, the philosopher treats them 
as a side issue in life. 

Will. A side issue ? 

Cutler. God took Eve from under Adam's ribs as 
a profound symbol that man should always regard 
woman as a side issue. 

Will. But they won't let you regard them as side 
issues. I can tell you one thing — what with Evie and 
the vicar, and the Oakminster people generally, I'm 
not going to enjoy myself. 

Cutler. Endurance, not enjoyment, is man's pass- 
key through this world. Throw yourself heart and 
soul into your business ; stick to your work ; be kind 
and forbearing with Evie ; humour her as much as 
you can ; consult her wishes, and receive her friends ; 
put her in her right position, and keep her there. 

Will. What on earth is a woman's right position ? 
Will you please tell me that ? 

Cutler. When the buoyant Panurge went to 
Dodona to seek counsel in matrimony — Rabelais 
doesn't mention this, but it's authentic — Panurge 
asked the oracle, " What is woman's rightful posi- 
tion ? " The oracle replied, " Put her above you, she 
is still beneath you. Put her beneath you, she is still 

L 



162 THE DIVINE GIFT act in 

above you. Put her on a level with you, and together 
you sink into sub-bottomless chaos." 

Will. I wish some oracle would tell me what to 
do with Evie. I suppose I shall have to take her 
back. 

Cutler. If you do, you'll have the satisfaction, 
denied to most husbands who take their wives back, 
of knowing that she has behaved herself with perfect 
propriety during her absence from you. 

Will. I suppose there is no doubt about that ? 
Cutler. Not the least. 

Will. Well, that's something 

[Sandford enters ivith a little note 
Sandford. [Giving it to Will.] Mrs. Janway asked 
me to give you this, sir. 

[Will takes the note and reads it. Exit Sandford. 

Will. [Having read note, shows great disgust.] 

What do you think ? She has gone to get her 

luggage, says she'll bring it to my rooms at the 

Lancaster. I shall find her there waiting for me. 

[With great disgust. 
Cutler. There, you see, matrimonial problems solve 
themselves, if we only allow them. 

Will. They know me so well at the Lancaster. I 

can't turn her out and have a row 

Cutler. Is it ever worth while to have a row with, 
or about, a woman ? 

Will. J suppose she'll hang on to her artistic tom- 
foolery. 

Cutler I should let her. It will leave you free to 
make carpets. 



act in THE DIVINE GIFT 163 

Will. Then there's her confounded lawyer's bill 
for the divorce. I shall have to pay up. 

Cutler. To pay up is a token of masculinity, like a 
stag's antlers. They can't deprive us of that. 

Will. [Desperately.] I've a jolly good mind to 

Cutler. To do what ? 

Will. [ With a gesture of despair.'] I clunnow 

[Enter Sandford. 
[Sandford announces Mr. Norton. 
[Enter George Norton. Exit Sandford. 
[Norton is much changed in manner — he is pale 
and languid, as if recovering from a long 
weakening illness. His pallor and the sharp- 
ness of his features make him even more 
handsome and distinguished. 

Cutler. Oh, George, I scarcely expected you. 

Norton. I hope you don't mind. How d'ye do, 
Janway ? 

Will. How are you? 

[Shaking hands. 

Norton. Just turning the corner, after a bad bout 
of typhoid. You're looking well. 

Will. I'm splendid. 

Norton. How's Mrs. Janway ? 

Will. Oh, she's capital, thanks. 

Norton. Give her my kind regards. 

Will. I will. [To Cutler.] I'll ring you up in 
the morning. 

Cutler. Do. Bring Evie here to dinner to-morrow 
night. [Shaking hands.] My young friend Treganza 



164 THE DIVINE GIFT act hi 

shall give you some bits out of his new opera, " Fair 
Kosamond." 

Will. Thanks. Evie's fond of music. Well, I'll 
be getting back to her. 

[Cutler sees him off and closes door after him. 

Cutler. This is too bad of you, George. 

Norton. I couldn't stick it in those rooms all the 
evening. So I thought I'd come up and see her. 

Cutler, No, George. She has only just pulled 
round, after months of terrible weakness and depres- 
sion. I can't let you upset her, and throw her back 
again. 

Norton. I won't upset her. I'll only just see her 
and get her answer. 

Cutler, No 

[Lora appears on balcony and comes in. She 
has a little shock of surprise, and then 
comes down to him very simply and kindly ; 
holds out her hand. 

Lora. George 

[He takes her hand, bends over it, kisses it 
tenderly, 
Norton. Cutler isn't giving me a very warm 
welcome, and I was rather afraid you might order 
me off the premises. 

Lora. You know I wouldn't do that. 

[She cannot help showing that she is moved ; 
goes away from him, stands apart. 
Cutler. Now, George ! Just say " How d'ye do ? " 
and "Good-bye" 



act in THE DIVINE GIFT 165 

Norton. No ; I must have a few minutes with her 
alone. [To Lora.] You won't refuse me ? 

Cutler. But I must. 

Lora. No. [To Cutler.] It will be best. Yes, 
please. 

Cutler. [After showing hesitation. ,] I shall be back 
in three minutes. [Exit. 

Lora. You've been ill. I'm so sorry. [Looking at 
him searckingly.~\ You've been very ill ? 

Norton. Yes, I had a very near shave. Twice I 
was all but gone — they did bring me a priest — upon 
my word, I was half inclined to give him a job. If 
I'd got a little more dotty, I believe they would 
have smuggled me into the Church. 

Lora. But you're better now — you'll soon be well. 
You have a splendid constitution. 

Norton. I had a splendid constitution, but this 
has knocked it to bits. Oh, I shall come round, but 
I've got to go through months of infernal " blues." 
Good lord ! it isn't living ! It's just hanging on in 
this rotten world, and wishing I was out of it. I've 
had my revolver taken away for fear I might use it. 

Lora. You won't think of that ? 

Norton. No, I dare say I shall hang on ; though 
I don't see why I should. I'm no use to myself or 
anyone else, and I'm as weak as a starved rat. 

Lora. Poor fellow ! 

Norton. Oh, I deserve it. Well, you've got your 
revenge, haven't you ? 

Lora. I never wished for that. Even now, if 
there were anything I could do to help you, I'd do it. 



166 THE DIVINE GIFT act hi 

Norton. Well, there's nobody living who can help 
me out of this hole except you. But I don't like to 
ask you. 

Lora. What could I do ? 

Norton. I've treated you worse than any man ever 
treated a woman. Will you forgive me, if I offer you 
the last and worst insult, and ask you to marry 
me? 

Lora. I couldn't do that, George. It wouldn't help 
you, and it wouldn't mean anything to me — now. 

Norton. You don't care for me any longer ? 

Lora. I don't love you any longer. You killed my 
love in this room last November. Don't let us speak 
about it. 

Norton. You must have suffered horribly. 

Lora. I was just numbed for months, just dead. I 
suppose I felt it so much, that I scarcely felt it at all. 
I went through all those months as if I were some- 
body else. Mr. Cutler took a furnished house for 
me in the next road, and did all he could. Then he 
went abroad, and I came here. I've gradually come 
to life again these last few weeks, and it has been so 
strange to find that I don't love you. It all seems so 
curious and far away, like a picture that somebody 
else has painted — and it's my own past life, and my 
love for you. 

Norton. It hasn't all gone, Lora ? 

Lora. Quite. There's nothing so dead as a dead 
love, is there ? Believe me, George, nothing can bring 
back my love for you. I'm so sorry — for your sake, 
so sorry ! 



act in THE DIVINE GIFT 167 

Norton. What a fool I've been ? How you loved 
me! 

Lora. Yes, and it was all so useless, so wasted ; we 
were like children who found a heap of diamonds, and 
thought they were pebbles, and threw them away into 
the mud. 

Norton. Won't you give me another chance, Lora ? 
I know I'm a lame duck just now, but the doctors 
say I shall pick myself out of this, and be as good a 
man as ever I was. 

Lora. Yes, you'll come to life again, as I am doing ; 
and then you'll find, as you did before, that I'm not 
very much to you 

Norton. You needn't remind me what a skunk I 
was to you. 

Lora. I didn't mean to hurt you, But when you 
get well, you won't be quite the same ; things will 
change with you, as they have changed with me ; you'll 
only wonder at the past, and not feel it. And you'll 
meet some other woman who will love you 

Norton. God help her, poor wretch, if I do. I 
shall make a pretty bad catch for any woman. I 
should make a pretty bad catch for you. I don't pre- 
tend I'm offering you anything that's worth having. 
But I wouldn't treat you as I did — I can promise that. 

Lora. Don't ask me, George ; it's impossible. 

Norton. You haven't made any other plans ? 

Lora. No, I have no plans. 

Norton. Won't you give me a trial ? I've seen my 
wife's solicitors, and she will agree to a divorce. So I 
shall be quite free. I'm offering to marry you, because 



168 THE DIVINE GIFT act hi 

I want to show you that I'm ready to start on fresh 
lines ; and you'll always have that claim on me 

Lora. What claim ? I didn't hold you by love. 
How could I hope to hold you by marriage ? 

Norton. That's true. But it would give you a 
position 

Lora. What position ? What position has your 
wife had all these years ? 

Norton. I've never worried her— she has been 
quite free to do as she likes. 

Lora. I don't want that position. 

Norton. And you know I never loved her. 

Lora. You did love me ? 

Norton. Yes, but I never found out how much till 
these last few months, since I've been on my back. 
And I've got months of it yet. Every time the clock 
ticks I feel I must dash something at it, and stop it. 
But it ticks and ticks; and I lie there and think 

and think That first season of yours at Covent 

Garden, our first drive down to Richmond 

Lora. Don't, George — ah, please don't 

Norton. No, it's not fair on you. Well, here I 
am, on my beam ends, knocked into a cocked hat; 
I never was worth your caring for, and I never shall 
be. But won't you give me another chance ? 

Lora. [Shakes her head.] Don't press me. It would 
be such a terrible mistake for both of us. 

Norton. It would be a terrible mistake for you. 
But it's the only thing that would make life worth 
having for me. [She shakes her head.] I dare say 
you're right. I'm such a crock 



act in THE DIVINE GIFT 1 69 

Lora. Oh, I can't bear to see you so weak and 
helpless. If I were sure it would make you well and 
happy, I think I could bring myself to it 

Norton. And you will ? That's like you, Lora ! 
You are a jewel ! [Cutler has entered. 

Cutler. [After a look at them.] Now, George. 
You're an invalid. It's time you were safely in 
bed 

Norton. No, I'm going to stay, if you don't mind. 
[Cutler shows annoyance, looks at Lora for an 
explanation, looks at Norton.] Lora's going to come 
back to me, and pick me out of this hole 

Cutler. [Looking sternly at Lora.] She isn't going 
to do anything so foolish, so criminal. 

Lora. Oh, I don't know ! George, don't ask 
me 

Norton* I promise, I swear you shall never regret 
it. 

Cutler. No, she shall never regret it, because she 
shall never do it. [Looking at Lora. 

Norton. It's for her to decide, isn't it ? 

Cutler. No. I'm going to decide for her. I have 
decided. Now, my lad, back to your hotel, and your 
nurse, and your slops. 

Norton. [Standing firm.] No. Lora, I know now 
what I've got. I'll never throw it away again. 

[Trying to go to her. 

Cutler. [Intercepting.'] George, this is too bad. She 
has been ill. I've brought her round. I'm her doctor, 
and I won't have her disturbed. Be off with you. 

[Rings hell. 



170 THE DIVINE GIFT act in 

Norton. What does she say ? 

[Lora has shown signs of a great struggle. 

Lora. I can't say anything now. Let me think it 
over. I'll write to you to-morrow. 

Cutler. She'll write to you to-morrow. I'll bring 
you the letter myself. 

Norton. No 

Cutler. Yes. [Sandford appears at door. 

Cutler. Taxi, Sandford. [Exit Sandford. 

Norton. You aren't going to kick me out ? 

Cutler. George, I'm very fond of you, as you know. 
But I'd kick you every yard of the way from here to 
your hotel, rather than let her go back to you. 

Norton. Lora 

Lora. Please go now. I'll write. Please go ! 

Norton. [After a pause.'] I've got another lively 
night in front of me. 

[Exit. Cutler goes with him to the door, looks 
at Lora, who has gone to the sofa, closes 
door, comes to her. 

Cutler. You love him still, then? 

Lora. No, not at all — in that way. My love is 
quite dead. 

Cutler. Then why sacrifice your whole future to a 
man you don't love ? 

Lora. I can't bear to see him suffer, and not try to 
help him. I know it's foolish, but I can't help it. I 
always give money to a beggar, even if I know he's 
an impostor, and even if it won't help him. 

Cutler. That's a divine gift, too. But it's a very 
mischievous one. Don't you see that if you go back 



act in THE DIVINE GIFT 171 

to him now it will be a meaner, crueller martyrdom 
than before ? 

Lora. Oh yes, I know. But I want to help 
him 

Cutler. You can't. But you can drag yourself 
down again; you can spoil that wonderful voice 
of yours; you can waste the next four years on 
him as you have wasted the last four, and find at the 
end of it that you've done no good to him, but only 
broken your heart, broken your health, and thrown 
away your last chance of peace and happiness ; thrown 
away the love and admiration of your public, beggared 
yourself physically, mentally, morally, spiritually — 
every way, for a man who'll only treat you in the 
future as he did in the past. You won't do it ! You 
sha'n't! Promise me you'll write him that you'll 
never see him again ! 

Lora. [After a long jmuse ; in a calm firm voice.'] 
Yes. I'll never see him again. 

Cutler. You mean that ? 

Lora. Yes. You shall see the letter. 

Cutler. And take it to him myself ? 

Lora. Yes. [He looks at her anxiously.] I mean it, 
you needn't fear. 

Cutler. Good. I'll keep you to that. And now 
we can take down our harp from the willow and tune 
up afresh. 

[Lora has gone away and sat down. She is 
crying a little.] 

Cutler. What is it ? 



172 THE DIVINE GIFT act in 

Lora. It all seems so useless, so hopeless. Does 
nothing ever come to fruit ? 

Cutler. Yes. That voice of yours has just ripened 
to perfection. What a harvest of music there is in 
it ; I thought last night it had never been so rich and 
full and persuasive. Oh, my dear, these old sorrows, 
these old sufferings, these old loves and hates and 
hopes and despairs, what are they but the discords 
that Ave have to control and select and compel into a 
deep harmony, for the ease and healing of others. 

Lora. Then I'm never to have a life of my own ? 

Cutler. No. " He only can live the world's life 
who has renounced his own." You've got to renounce 
your own life and live the world's life. There's where 
you'll find your satisfaction. There's where you'll 
find an outlet for your divine pity, and your divine 
song. You mustn't defraud the public any longer. 
You've got to sing. It's your duty, just as it's the 
soldier's duty to be found at his post. And if you 
run away you deserve to be court-martialled and shot. 
Think what God has given you to give out to others. 
It's the most precious, the most divine thing on earth 
— this vox humana. See what we are ready to pay 
for it, in worship, in love, in admiration, in applause, 
in money — more than we pay to any statesman, or 
artist, or poet, or soldier. It's the music of all music. 
And it's ours ; it's not yours ; it's ours ! we demand 
it from you. We demand you shall treasure it, and 
hoard it up for us. We will have your very best. 
And for the future you'll give it to us, won't you? 

Lora. I'll try ! Dear sage, I'll try. 



act in THE DIVINE GIFT 173 

[John Treganza comes in from the balcony, 
much excited ; a roll of music in his 
hand. 

John. I've got it at last ! I've done it ! 

Cutler. What? 

John. Fair Rosamond's song ? It has been haunt- 
ing me for months. And to-night it rushed into my 
head, faster than I could score it down. [Pressing the 
roll into Lora's hands.] Just look over that, will you, 
and tell me if it will do ? 

[Lora takes the music and goes over the 
notes to herself. ,] 

Cutler. You're satisfied with it yourself ? 

John. No, not quite satisfied with the opera all 
through. I shall do bigger things by and by, when 
I get a bigger subject. " Fair Rosamond " is rather a 
stale theme. 

Cutler. There are no stale themes, or stale stories. 
There are only stale authors. 

John. There's one thing about " Fair Rosamond." 
It has a good strong love interest. And they will have 
plenty of love in the theatre. 

Cutler. They will have plenty of love — in the 
theatre. 

[Lora hums out a few notes of Fair Rosa- 
mond's song. 

[Seccombe enters. 

Seccombe. The printers are ringing up for "The 
Future of the Human Race." 



174 THE DIVINE GIFT act hi 

Cutler. All right, Seccombe. They shall have it. 
Wait a moment. [Lora hums a note or two. 

Cutler. We'll try it over after supper. 

John. Couldn't we run over the song now ? I want 
to hear how it comes out. 

Lora. Come, then. [Exit, followed by John. 

Cutler. [Very briskly .] Now, Seccombe, let's polish 
off the " Human Race." I'm just in the mood for it. 
[Seccombe sits at table, and takes out his copy- 
ing note-book and pencil. 

Cutler. [Feeling in his ivaistcoat pocket.] I've got 
all my notes made. 

[Taking [out a few slips oj paper on vihich are 
pencilled notes. 

Seccombe. There's only the tag 

Cutler. Tags are tedious excrescences, Seccombe. 

Seccombe. Yes — you'll cut it short, won't you ? 

Cutler. I can't, Seccombe. I can't spare the 
Human Race. They don't deserve it. Besides, I 
want to show off, and end in a prean. 

Seccombe. You aren't going to try any fine writing, 
are you ? 

Cutler. I'm very much afraid I am. There used 
to be a bit of the poet in me. Let's see if we can wake 
him up. 

Seccombe. You told me always to call a halt when 
you started fine writing. 

Cutler. Call it the next time. Now, are you 
ready ? [Giving down from his notes.] " And over all 
the labours and habitations of men, over all the cities 
and desert places of the earth, the implacable old 



act m THE DIVINE GIFT 175 

Mother rings out her untiring carillon, from a tongue 
of iron in a fortress of stone " 

Seccombe. [Stops, looks up.] You don't suppose this 
is the kind of stuff the British public wants, do you ? 

Cutler. No, they don't want it. But they need it. 
So let them have it, to correct their self-importance. 

Seccombe. They won't understand it. 

Cutler. The onus lies upon them. I love to be a 
stumbling-block to fools. How far have you got ? 

Seccombe. " The implacable old Mother rings out 
her untiring carillon " 

Cutler. " From a tongue of iron in a fortress of 
stone. ' Multiply, my children ! Increase and mul- 
tiply ! ' In sweat and sorrow and agony, bring forth 
the works of your hands, and the children of your 
loins. Increase and multiply! The earth is yours. 
Possess it, and encumber it for a season. Waste my 
substance! Waste your own ! Come and go! Love 
and hate ! Experiment ! Toil ! Blunder ! Weep ! " 

Seccombe. [Writing.] "Weep!" 

Cutler. [Dictating, getting more excited.] " Succour 
and devour each other. Sustain and destroy. Make 
war. Make peace. Fail in your purposes, you accom- 
plish mine. Thwart me, you further me. Obey me, 
I frustrate you. What you sow, I reap. What you 
devastate, I replenish. What you build, I pull 
down. Your will is the smoke of my nostrils, and 
all your generations are weeds that my breath has 
sown " 

Seccombe. [Grumbles.] They'll never stand this 



Cutler. [Rather angrily.] Take down ! Take down ! 



176 THE DIVINE GIFT act in 

Take down ! [ Walking about, looking occasionally at 
his notes, then half-closing his eyes, and dictating more 
excitedly.'] " I called you forth to supplant you. I 
begot you to disinherit you. Before I fashioned you, 
I had blotted you out ; ere ever you were born, I 
had named you nothingness and dust. A deep pit of 
oblivion have I digged for you ; and there shall you 
be buried, and all memory of you perish, as of them 
that are dead of old." 

Seccombe. [Writing.] " Dead of old." 

Cutler. " Yet increase and multiply, my children ! 
Fill the void places of the earth. Rejoice for an hour. 
Increase and multiply. The sun's blue vault I stretch 
above you, and Iris' rain-dyed bow. For you I paint 
the clouds with gold and vermilion ; and for you I 
powder the night with diamonds. Increase and 
multiply. Springtime and summer and harvest I 
vouchsafe you ; laughter and music and wine ; friend- 
ship, and the prattle of children " 

[A nightingale in the garden gives out a few 
deep, startling notes.] Jug ! Jug ! Jug ! 

Cutler. [Pausing to listen.] The old strain outside, 
Seccombe. 

[A few chords of Rosamond's song are struck 
on the piano in the next room, and Lora's 
voice is heard, essaying the song, "I am 
loved, I am owned, I am mated."] 

Cutler. The old strain inside, Seccombe. 

Seccombe. There was an article in the last number 
of the " Medical Review " proving that love is a form 
of paranoia. 



act in THE DIVINE GIFT 177 

Cutler. It's a very agreeable form of paranoia. 
Seccombe. My fit cost me three hundred pounds. 
[The nightingale again gives out startling notes. 
Jug ! Jug ! Jug ! 
Cutler. Don't be a dog in the manger, Seccombe. 
Don't grudge poor mortals their "drop of Venus' 
honeyed joy, succeeded soon by chilly care." 

[A few chords are struck in the next room, and 
Lora tries her voice, uttering deep rich 
notes. He creeps ?ioiselessly to the door and 
opens it very slowly ; then comes down, a 
step or two away from it listening. 
Seccombe. What about the " Human Race " ? 
Cutler. Oh, let it perish. Listen ! 

[Lora through the open door sings Fair 
Rosamond's song. 

I. 

I am loved, I am owned, I am mated ; 
Swell, thrush, that gold- bright throat ; 
Burst, pierce, that wild sweet note ; 
He draws near, lord of me, long awaited ; 
Spill rich fierce sounds like wine, 
Pour out my soul with thine ; 
Sing ! Sing ! Sing ! 
Come meet me! Come meet me! Come meet me! 

Sing ! Sing ! Sing ! 
For the garlanded earth is a song, and a fire, and 
a bloom, new created, 
Sing ! Sing ! Sing ! 



178 THE DIVINE GIFT act hi 

II. 

Swift he rides ; hot he spurs ; on he presses ; 
Plunge, horse, with sure proud feet ; 
Fly, ground, their glad quick beat ; 
He breaks way through the green wildernesses ; 
Stop, heart, and bound again ; 
Gallop with pantings ; then 
Leap ! Leap ! Leap ! 
I greet thee ! I greet thee ! I greet thee ! 

Leap ! Leap ! Leap ! 
To my arms, and there rest, while day sinks ; 
then fulfilled, after utmost caresses, 
Sleep! Sleep! Sleep! 



CURTAIN. 



Printed by 

Ballantyne & Company Ltd 

London 



JUN 14 1933 



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